


are we written in the stars (or are we written in the sand)

by eberbae (dustyjournal), remembermyfic



Series: mischief managed [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Harry Potter AU, M/M, soulmates turned on its head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-03-08 20:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18902410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyjournal/pseuds/eberbae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/remembermyfic/pseuds/remembermyfic
Summary: For as long as Jack can remember, his mother has always said the same thing when she tucked him into bed: “You were brought into my life so I could love you unconditionally.”It isn’t until he’s older, nine or ten, when he starts getting bullied about his birthmarks that his mother sits him down.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part 2. You do not have to read part 1. We have it on our beta's authority and she did not read part 1 before beta-ing part 2. 
> 
> Speaking of, hugest shoutout to A, our lovely beta, who did so much work to read this through. 
> 
> Our endless love to S, J, K, and R, who has listened to so much talk about this ridiculous fic. 
> 
> PS: how do you write a summary without spoilers? Asking for a friend.
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING** for anxiety attacks.

For as long as Jack can remember, his mother has always said the same thing when she tucked him into bed: “You were brought into my life so I could love you unconditionally.”

As a child, Jack had accepted that at face value. There’s no reason to believe his mother would love him any other way. Parents, he’s taught, are supposed to love their children. Some don’t, and that’s messed up, but it’s kind of what parents are supposed to do. 

It isn’t until he’s older, nine or ten, when he starts getting bullied about his birthmarks that his mother sits him down.

“They’re not common,” she tells him softly, like it’ll be a blow. It’s confusing, given they’ve already had the “you’re a wizard” talk and magic is as much in his blood as, well, his blood.

Except then she goes on to explain that his birthmark isn’t a birthmark at all. That people that come into his life, people whose lives he becomes a part of, are all predestined.

It kind of messes him up a bit. 

Or a lot. Shut up, Jessie. 

It’s not his fault it turns his world on its head. He starts looking for them, starts watching every time he meets someone new. They run from the mundane to the meaningful. His first girlfriend shows up with a bright sun and makes him believe that maybe some marks don’t fade - until she breaks up with him two years in and shatters his heart. His first boyfriend shows up with a fucking rainbow flag like a neon sign. That one is easier to take in stride. 

His glace teams leave marks, some of his best friends leave marks, but most of them fade, after a while. 

That’s when it hurts the most. 

“What am I supposed to do?” Jack says morosely, sprawled out over Jessie’s bed the night before he leaves for his third year at L’Ecole, fifteen now and still unsure of how to deal with the chaos his fatemarks cause him. 

He hears Jessie huff, then the squeak of her chair. She flops onto the bed with him, knocks her knee against his hard enough to hurt. “Figure it out,” she replies, ignoring his glare. She flips to her side to face him, her phone in hand. She shoves it in his face. 

“What-” Jack shoves it away, but grabs for it in the same motion, eyes skimming. “Magipsychology?” 

Jessie shrugs. “I’ve been reading. Fatemarks really aren’t anywhere. But soulmarks…” 

Jack’s only half listening. He’s busy reading about new research into soulmarks and how it connects with personality and brain chemistry. He’s reading about studies, magical and muggle, that have already been done on the way bonds work. “Fatemarks are like bonds.” He looks up at her. “Temporary bonds, right?” 

Jessie just watches him. It’s not an unequivocal support, but it’s not a rebuttal either. Jessie doesn’t have an answer either and she’s never been one to lie to him. 

“Is this real?” 

“There are connections, similarities,” she responds with a roll of her eyes. “I know it’s not the same-”

He reaches over and ruffles a hand through her hair, ignoring her yelp and holding her phone out of her reach. “It’s a start.” 

It’s the moment Jack falls in love with magipsychology.  

 

Connor knows that he’s too hard on himself. He can’t help it sometimes - the way his gut tells him he could have done something better, that he was too close to perfect, but not quite there. Sometimes, he lets his racing thoughts keep him up at night, unable to pack it all away until he can be functional again. 

He can’t stop it. He’s tried. He’s done all the reading, he’s tried all the coping mechanisms. He likes to think he’s got it under control; he can function just fine. 

Mostly. 

Except for a few times when that mask slips. Most embarrassingly, it happens at Cam’s graduation, surrounded by family and friends. 

The worst part is there’s nothing really to get worked up about. It’s supposed to be a happy day. Cam’s moving on with a job offer that’s close to home, and he’ll be able to visit Connor on weekends. But it hits Connor that he’ll have to do this too in just a few years and he has no idea what he wants to do. He’ll have to go out, get a job, make his family proud and there are so many people asking him how he’s going to do that, whether he’s going to follow his mother into sales or his father into consulting. 

He’s not sure what answers he gives. He has no idea what he says. It’s a weird sort of fog that floats over him until Cam’s tugging on his wrist. It’s only then that he realizes his breath is fast and his hands are balled into fists. 

“Okay. We’re going outside.” 

Connor can’t argue. His words are backed up in his throat now that Cam’s here. Cam knows how to answer all the questions. 

When they do get outside, the air is sharp in Connor’s lungs despite the warmth of the late June sun. It hurts, but in the way a good workout does the morning after. He gasps, tries to take as much of it in as he can. He focuses on the rays of the sun, the breeze on his face, anything other than the people crowded inside. 

It finally feels like he can breathe. 

“Better?” 

Connor blinks. Cam doesn’t look anything other than calm, but Connor swallows anyway, nervous. Cam’s the first person to see him lose it like this. “Yeah.” 

Cam waits a few more beats, then he says, “This is a problem, isn’t it. You’ve been dealing with this… for a while. More than just the perfectionist thing.” 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re  _ not.” _

Cam does enough to calm Connor down for the rest of the day. Except they don’t talk about it after that. Cam goes on, Connor goes back to school for his second year, where he’s just as good at hiding things as he is at glace. He knows where all the dark corners are when his days are bad, where the quiet corners of the library are to hide. 

Glace tryouts are an entirely different ball of wax though. 

“Buddy, I’ve seen you play,” Dylan Strome says with a roll of his eyes. “I don’t even know why they’re making you try out.” 

“I could choke. I could not make it,” Connor replies and he can’t meet Dylan’s eyes. He can’t focus either. He can see the way the world’s going a little fuzzy around the edges. He’s worked so hard for this, he’s so good at it, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to do it. And then what happens, when he doesn’t make it but all of his friends do?

“Whoa, bud.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Dylan’s  voice is unwavering. His chest expands slowly, one deep breath, and Connor finds himself following suit. Then a second, then a third, and the fogginess starts to fade. 

“Totally fine,” Dylan repeats, deliberate and calm. “Just a tiny little anxiety attack.” 

Connor blinks a little owlishly, partially because his brain is still foggy, still trying to process all the emotion, and partially because Connor has never heard someone put a name to it before. “Anxiety.” 

“Yeah. That’s what it is, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t know,” Connor admits. “No one’s… called it anything.” 

“Oh.” Dylan’s voice changes, like he’s a little surprised. “I’ve seen it before. My brother’s boyfriend’s got it pretty bad some days.” 

He says it so nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. It helps Connor take a breath. It feels like a validation to actually put a name to what he’s been feeling for so long. “Oh.” 

Dylan doesn’t laugh, but the look on his face says it’s a close thing. “There’s research,” he says, throws an arm over Connor’s shoulders. “If you put on your big boy pants and make this team, I’ll show you everything.”

It’s not the motivation Dylan thinks it is, but Connor steps onto the glace rink and feels less like he’s going to shake out of his skin. 

“Holy shit,” Dylan says after the tryout. “Why were you even nervous?” 

Connor shrugs. He can’t explain it, not in a way people generally understand. So he lets Dylan wrap his arm around Connor’s shoulders and guide him back to the dorms. 

 

It’s the end of Year Four when Connor is approached by Sidney Crosby.  _ The _ Sidney Crosby. It makes sense to send the captain of his house’s Varsity team to convince him to apply for exceptional status. 

“I completely understand if you would rather keep your captaincy, your teammates, for one more year,” Sid - he refused to let Connor call him Mr. Crosby, he’s only three years older - says. “But if you’re seriously considering a future in professional glace, this would be a fantastic opportunity. You would have more ice time, access to more trainers, not to mention greater exposure.”

It’s all a bit of a buzz, but Connor finds himself nodding. Just because he’s stunned silent doesn’t mean he can’t recognize his dream calling to him. 

He swallows, nods once more. “Thank you, Sid. I would be honoured to apply.”

It’s not a guarantee, but Sid winks at him when Connor tells him a few days later that he’s officially applied, and well. Connor would be lying if he said he didn’t look up all his potential new teammates on Facebook and Instagram. 

“You’re the only one who doesn’t see how good you are,” is Dylan’s assessment, though that’s always Dylan’s assessment. “Which like, it’s cute that you’re humble, but I think we both know if Crosby specifically is telling you to apply, he’s pretty convinced you’re going to get it.”

“You think so?”

“About making it? Of course I am.”

Connor narrows his eyes. “But.” 

“But,” Dylan allows and glances around. Connor’s hackles go up. “Hey don’t do that. It’s not… I’m worried.”

“Worried.” 

“The anxiety,” Dylan replies without judgment. “Is it a good idea for you to take this on with everything else you’re handling.”

“I can handle it,” Connor says. 

Dylan doesn’t look convinced, but nods. Connor loves him for his support and his understanding. “I want it.”

“Okay.”

 

It’s a long summer of interviews and psychologists, meetings and questions that are almost more intrusive than Connor would like. It’s a lot of conversations with a lot of people with high rank and a lot of letters after their names. 

In the end though, Connor gets it. 

He’s playing Varsity glace a full year too early. 

And he’s determined to do it well. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

By Year Five, Jack knows about Connor McDavid.  _ Everyone _ knows about Connor McDavid. First Years know who Connor McDavid is before they show up. His name is whispered reverently in the halls whenever glace comes up, whenever classes come up. No one has a goddamn bad word to say about him and no matter what Jack does, he can’t meet that standard. It grates on him, almost more than anything else; Jack, who is in advanced classes, who is literally doing groundbreaking research and... Nothing.

“Maybe it’s because he’s  _ nice _ ,” Noah says, shoving at Jack’s shoulder. Jack likes Noah. He’s a calm dude to study with. The calm is everything, though Jack will never say it. He had to get special freaking permission to take half of these courses; it’s a lot. 

“I’m nice,” Jack replies indignantly, reaching for the notes Noah’s crumpling under his ass. 

“If porcupines are considered nice.” 

Jack shoves him. Rightfully so, in Jack’s opinion. Noah yelps. It’s satisfying. 

They’ve just resettled - no one’s in Noah’s dorm, like, ever, so it’s glorious for studying - when, speak of the devil, McDavid and Marner step in. 

“Hey,” he says, because fuck you, Noah, he can be nice. Even to McDavid. 

Even if the rumours are true that McDavid’s been called up to Varsity early. 

(Okay, Jack is a little bitter about that. He’s just as good, honestly, and he’s going to discover a new bonding theory in magipsychology. He’s balancing everything and all anyone can ever talk about is how McDavid is good enough for exceptional status. 

It chafes. 

Jack will never admit to anyone it does.

Noah doesn’t count.)

Marner and McDavid greet him in response, and Jack shoves his headphones back into his ears. Noah talks to himself when he studies. It’s not Jack’s fault.

There’s a hum just under the music in his ears, and Jack watches over the top of his textbook as McDavid digs out one of Stromer’s hoodies, hands it to Marner. Then Marner’s pulling out his wand, the hoodie clenched so tight in his fist his knuckles are white. Jack doesn’t even realize he’s pulling his headphones out of his ears until his brain’s registering what Marner’s saying. Words that send off alarm bells in his brain and make his heart rate spike.

And Jack’s off the bed a second later, ripping the wand from Marner’s fingers and clapping a hand over his mouth. “Are you fucking serious right now?”

Marner yanks Jack’s hand from his mouth as McDavid says, “What the hell?”

“What the hell, me? What the hell,  _ you _ , you fucking dumbasses!” He’s yelling. He knows it. He doesn’t care. He grabs for the hoodie, shakes it in Marner’s face. “Do you have any fucking clue what a personal item like this in a spell that fucking archaic and unstable can do?” They stare at him, open-mouthed, and he barrels on, “Probably not, considering you were about to fuck Strome up entirely.”

He watches them blink at each other for a few moments and tries his best not to growl at the two of them.

“You know what we’re doing?” McDavid finally asks.

Jack rolls his eyes and drops the hoodie aside. Now that there’s no risk, the adrenaline slides out of him, leaving him calm as he says, “I’m in some advanced magipsychology courses. And, more importantly, I’m not an idiot because I can recognize a book based on absolutely zero scientific evidence being used inappropriately. I’m surprised it doesn’t have the Freud seal of approval on it.”

“Oh,” Mitch says, and his voice is satisfyingly small. Serves him right, holy shit.

“Yeah, ‘oh’”, Jack mocks. “I don’t want to know what fucked up thing you were planning to do to Strome, but this is not some happy-fun love spell that you can use personal items for. This is a theoretical approach to legitimate brain restructuring. Is that what you wanted?”

There’s a beat of silence before Marner starts, “We were, um-”

“Dylan cursed himself,” McDavid pipes up, “To make him forget that he and Mitch ever dated.”

And that… well, both sounds like Strome and like the dumbest thing Jack’s ever heard. Which, really, makes it even more Strome-like. Until the words sink in and Jack feels his jaw drop. “He did that… successfully? Without blowing up his brain or growing a tail?”

It’s Marner that mumbles, “Yeah, over the summer.”

“Well, that explains a lot.” Jack jumps at Noah’s voice and looks over his shoulder, raises an eyebrow. Noah’s already shoving his headphones back into his ears and Jack finds himself rolling his eyes again.

“We’re trying to reverse it,” McDavid says, drawing Jack’s attention. “It’s not right.”

Jack looks at them both, then reaches over and closes the book rather decisively. He makes a note to have the damn thing burned. “Right, okay, well you weren’t going to reverse it like this. If anything, you were about to make it a million times worse. And you know why? Because you have to use neutral items only, especially since the caster already knows the person of interest. If Dylan altered his memories that specifically, he figured out how to tease apart every section of his memory. Trying to reverse it crudely could damage his entire limbic system, and then you’d really feel bad for yourself. Not to mention you should at least have an MPMD or higher who works with mind curses in the first place. If it’s a charm or a powerful jinx, maybe someone like me could cast it. But still.”

“Um,” McDavid stutters out. “What?”

Jack looks between them both and rolls his eyes. He makes himself sound deliberately snobbish as he says, “Plebians. Basically, Strome successfully erased - or just altered really effectively - only the memories about your relationship, but not about you entirely. The way you two were trying to fix it, you were going to change every memory about you that he has, or maybe every memory since meeting you, or worse.”

“We could have made him forget Mitch completely?” McDavid asks.

Jack can’t help the snort but valiantly bites back sharp retort and says, “Or, you know, made him forget who  _ he _ is. Entirely.”

“Thank you for stopping me,” Marner says eventually, and finally looks up. Jack blinks, surprised, then slides the book back to McDavid. He pauses for a moment, then climbs off the bed and heads to his bag. The book is huge, but he’s been meaning to return it. He thinks for a moment, then another before he finally rolls his eyes, more at himself. “I can probably help.” He looks down at the book, leafs through it, catches a couple of headers. “Or at least ask Cooper some basics, see if it really is a curse. My textbooks might have something too. It’s just… It’s amazing. Strome shouldn’t have been able to do that…”

“Eichs?”

Jack blinks, realizes he got caught up in the words. “Right. I’ll look. Now get the fuck out. No one knows when Strome’ll be back and you don’t want to get caught here.”

He climbs back onto Noah’s bed, starts shuffling through his notes.

“Thanks again,” he hears softly. Marner.

“Close the door on your way out.”

When Jack looks over at Strome’s bed, he’s maybe less surprised than he’d thought that the hoodie is gone too.

There’s an abstract art brain on his shoulder in the morning, and all Jack can do is huff out a sigh and head for the library. If Strome, Marner and McDavid can spawn a fatemark, Jack figures he might as well get a damn early start.

Idiots.

 

Connor is not even close to awake and it is causing problems. It’s not his fault. Mitch is anxious and worried and chomping at the bit to get started and Connor gets that, he does. But it’s also the beginning of the school year and he’s got training and school and this and… It’s a lot, but it doesn’t seem to have stopped Mitch from dragging Connor out of his nice warm sheets and to the library. 

Which is kind of where the anxiety starts. 

Connor is smart. Connor knows he’s smart. Connor is one of the best in their year and everyone, including Connor, knows it. But that doesn’t mean that he has all the answers. Which is too bad, because it’s definitely what Mitch is expecting of him. Connor doesn’t even know where to start here, now that Jack has (thankfully) obliterated their only plan. 

It’s overwhelming. It’s worse when he thinks about it, and it’s all he can do. His heart is pounding, he knows his breath is starting to quicken. Of course, that’s when Jack walks into the library, bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder and carrying a tie-dye mug that’s still steaming. Connor’s breath catches because Jack can’t see him freaking out like this, but Connor can’t ignore Jack, either. 

Mitch waves Jack over and Connor gives a little wave, realizing too late that it’s probably the most awkward thing he could have done. Jack blinks for a moment, but raises his mug in response, so Connor exhales. He focuses on the way Jack’s bag is hanging on his shoulder by a thread and his breathing calms down just close enough to normal when Jack reaches their table.  

“Hey,” Mitch offers in greeting when Jack sets the mug down. 

“Marner. McDavid. It’s fucking early.” 

Connor shrugs, darting a glance at Mitch. Jack arches an eyebrow, but pulls out one of the empty chairs. 

“Couldn’t bring caffeine for the rest of us?” Mitch chides, and Jack scoffs. 

“Don’t pretend you drink coffee,” Jack shoots back. “It stunts your growth.”

Mitch squawks and puffs his chest out. “Maybe not black, but add a little creamer and.” He puts his pointer finger and thumb together to finish the thought.

“One sugar,” Jack corrects. Mitch looks like he’s going to continue the banter, and Connor can see this conversation going on for hours, so he cuts in. 

“Mitch and I have a lot of stuff to look through already, but if you think there’s any books we should start with, we’re taking suggestions.”

Jack blinks once, twice, then settles his gaze on the piles of books, highlighting the shadows under his eyes. “First thing’s first.” Judgment is loud in his tone as he grabs a few books in the haphazard pile, “These? Useless. Don’t reach for anything older than 2000. This fucking subject changes on the daily, especially with everything muggles are doing in brain research. It’s driving me mental. Wickenheiser is kicking my ass over sources and I’m so done with it.” 

The confidence in his tone brings relief to Connor’s veins. Connor won’t say it out loud, but he’s been a little stunned by the fact that he could have potentially ruined his best friend’s life all because he is completely out of his depth. 

He grabs the nearest book and flips to the first chapter, starts reading the first sentence. Then reads it again. Then a third time. Finally, he gathers courage and clears his throat. “Are there any basic magipsychology books to start with? I can barely understand this introduction.” 

Jack looks around, then reaches for one of the books at his elbow. “This has some basics.” He glances around, brow wrinkling. “I… There’s one that’s the basic way magic really works with the brain…” He trails off mumbling to himself, wanders off into the shelves. 

Mitch blows out a breath. “Thanks man. I’m still so lost with all this stuff.” 

“Yeah,” Connor says on a breath. “It’s-”

“A lot.” 

Connor looks up and Mitch’s gaze is understanding. It makes Connor’s skin crawl a little. Mitch unfortunately makes it worse when he reaches across the table. 

“Look I-” Mitch swallows. “Whatever Dylan and I had… I can’t imagine not really having my best friend.” 

Except Connor knows he can, Connor knows he’s experiencing it right now and he feels guilty for the relief that’s balled up in the realization Mitch thinks this is about Dylan and not Connor’s abilities. “Yeah.”

Jack comes back, visibly frustrated. “Never mind, the books are stupid. I forgot.” He rummages in his bag for a tablet he withdraws with a flourish. “I’ll e-mail you something. Wickenheiser has the best intro to magipsy as part of a paper on the way magic develops in children as they grow. Definitely the clearest explanation I’ve ever read.”

It all rattles off Jack’s tongue like this is something he has to do often - or like he’s finally excited someone wants to delve into something he’s obviously passionate about. He lights up with it, and Connor feels butterflies take flight in his stomach. They’re not anxious ones either, but butterflies that are so happy to see Jack in his element. Connor has to look away, just in case the blush he feels is real. This is wholly not the time to develop a stupid crush, all because there’s someone else who is smart and capable right in front of him.

 “Thanks,” Connor says, and he gets to reading. 

 

Jack flops onto his bed, exhausted. Research, practice, homework, dinner. It’s been a long day, and he’s dialing his phone before he really registers it. 

“Ya?” Noah says by way of greeting.

“Movie. My room,” Jack says flatly. Then, after a moment, “Bring pie.” 

Jack can hear Noah’s smile when he says, “On my way.” 

Noah does bring pie, except it’s the abomination that is cherry. Jack eats it anyway, but only after he gives Noah shit for it.

“You want to talk about it?” Noah asks as Jack charms Noah’s iPad to float in the air above them.

Jack shrugs. “No. I sound dumb.”

“Tell me something new,” Noah says. Then with a huff, “Buddy, you made me bring  _ pie _ .” 

“A completely invalid piece of pie,” Jack grumbles. Noah just gives him that look, the one that says ‘I know you better than anyone, so don’t you dare bullshit me’. 

It works, is what Jack’s saying.

He grumbles and flips onto his side, ignoring the tablet. “So, you know I said I’d help with the whole Strome situation.”

“I know you ripped McDavid a new one over the Strome situation,” Noah replies cautiously. “Helping them though?” 

“Look, I don’t want to be the reason Strome turns into a marshmallow, okay? That’s like, not due diligence or something.”

“So, that’s the last time I let you binge  _ The West Wing _ .”

“Fuck you, it’s a great show.” 

Noah doesn’t even flinch. It’s enough to get the fight to drain out of Jack, his shoulders hunching inwards. “You remember the first time I had to explain psych to you?”  

“Which first time?” Noah asks, because he gets Jack like so few others do. It’s enough to get Jack smile. 

“That too,” Jack agrees. Then, “McPerfect might not be so perfect.” 

“You are literally the only one who thinks he is.”

Jack turns his next words over in his head, then pushes his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t think he thinks he is.” 

And Noah, wonderful, patient Noah, just sits and waits Jack out, lets him puzzle through how he wants to explain the nerves Jack had seen from McDavid, the careful phrasing of every question after he’d devoured the basics, like he wanted Jack to believe he just wanted clarification and not that he didn’t have the knowledge in the first place. 

“I don’t get it,” he finally settles on, flopping to his back. “Why not just… he wanted me to think he knew shit. Magipsychology is fucking hard, bud. Like, there are days I don’t even know enough and it’s not like I didn’t already know they were dumb about it. Like, I literally stopped them from erasing Strome’s identity. Of course I know they don’t know shit.” 

“Okay,” Noah replies slowly, draws out the last syllable. He’s not trying to be a dick, but Jack rolls his eyes anyway. 

“So why does he want to pretend he does? He’s so much more tolerable when he’s not a know-it-all.” 

Noah snorts. “It’s not like you’re not just as obsessed with always being better. Perfectionism on crack, you know? How many times have you come back from a meeting with your advisor wondering if you should drop all of your advanced classes because you can’t hack it - which is the most blatant lie you tell yourself. How many times have you been so nervous you’re going to puke but looked me in the eye and said, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’?”

Jack gives Noah a look. “Which one of us is studying psychology.”

Noah huffs, visibly frustrated. “My point is, it’s probably dialled up to 100 with McDavid. You like to conveniently ignore how much pressure the dude’s under here. All the professors think he’s Gretzky’s gift to magic. They think he’s some crazy glace player. But at the end of the day, he’s human and he’s only…” he counts on his fingers, “a few months younger than you. And it’s not like you’re the pinnacle of maturity.” 

“You’re an asshole,” is all Jack can say. And, since his brain is now spiraling into the many layers of this conversation, he puts on  _ Oceans Twelve  _ and forces the conversation into quiet. 

 

“You really think he can help?”

Connor looks over to where Mitch is biting his lip, feels his heart squeeze painfully. He hates how much this is obviously tearing Mitch apart. It had baffled Connor too, the idea that Dylan would just up and break up with Mitch. It’s one of the dumber things Dylan’s ever done and it breaks Connor’s heart. 

But, it’s Jack. Besides the fact that Connor genuinely likes hanging out with Jack, finds him grounding and funny and a great sounding board, the guy has no doubts that they’re going to figure this out. He hadn’t specified when, and he definitely hadn’t said it’d be easy, but Connor can just tell they’re going to do it. They’re going to fix Dylan. Connor’s been carefully avoiding any thoughts about how he shivers when Jack steps in and gives them directions, or corrects Connor on a concept. 

“I do,” Connor replies, looking Mitch right in the eye. 

Mitch takes a minute, then nods, gives a half-smile, and looks back down at his book. But something’s off about it, like he’s accepting it for Connor’s benefit. 

“He was telling me about this one strategy focused on situational-based cues that sounded pretty interesting,” Connor attempts. Mitch looks up, gives Connor the go-ahead. Connor continues to explain, even though he doesn’t think he’s getting all the details quite right, but it’s enough to make Mitch’s shoulders lift, which is all Connor needs.

“And he thinks that’s going to help?” 

Connor does everything in his power to not chew on his lip. Mitch sounds so painfully earnest, so real and it, fundamentally, pisses Connor off that this is what Dylan gave up. This is what Dylan chose to forget. He couldn’t imagine doing that to someone he loved. 

“He thinks it’s a good start.” 

Mitch huffs. “Everything’s a good start.” 

Connor lets himself chuckle this time, swallows down the weird floating feeling that develops when he thinks about seeking Jack out later, nailing down a few concepts that are escaping him. Everyone lights up when they’re talking about things that interest them. Jack’s no exception. The endorphins running through him in anticipation are about good conversation, not about Jack. It wouldn’t make sense if it was about Jack. They’re not even friends, not even in the realm, so it won’t do for Connor to feed the butterflies that seem to want to take flight at even the thought of Jack. 

He’s just reacting. The emotions will pass and it’ll be all back to Jack just helping them out, not this anticipation. After all, Connor’s often praised for his ability to make things happen. 

He can make this happen, too.

 

Connor’s been in the library for too long. 

He’ll argue for ages that it’s not his fault - it’s Dylan’s, which is kind of par for the course for their friendship. Unlike Mitch, who Connor knows went back to his dorm and passed out, Connor had tossed and turned forever before deciding to just get up. 

After all, research can’t do itself. 

But now his eyes are gritty, the book is foggy around the edges. He knows he’s tired. He understands he’s tired. He also knows that’s not doing anything for the pressure he can feel pushing on his chest. 

He drops his head to the desk. It’s not the time to be panicking. He’s smart. He knows Jack’s smart. And Jack had sounded beyond capable of handling brain-related magic. But Dylan is Connor’s best friend. He’s invested in this, he’s invested in Dylan and he  _ needs _ to be able to help. 

“Don’t you turn into a pumpkin at midnight?” 

Connor’s head rockets up, not that he has to look to know it’s Jack standing above him. Jack looks perfectly put together, a grey beanie on his head and a really nice sweater on. Connor can only imagine what  _ he _ looks like - his eyes are probably bloodshot and have purple circles underneath them, his hair the consistent fluffy mess it always is when he doesn’t comb it, weekend sweats with new stains on them because his clumsiness is at an all-time high when he’s exhausted.

“What?” Connor asks, having already forgotten the question. 

Jack’s eyebrows furrow but he pulls up a chair beside Connor anyway. “Nevermind. Don’t you have game in, like, seven hours?”

Oh shit. The game. Connor had completely forgotten about the game. He can’t - he can’t underperform there. He can’t let his team down, and he’ll definitely do that if he doesn’t get some sleep.

If he hadn’t been doing reading upon reading for his stupid best friend’s stupid mistake. 

“Uh, dude, you’re being…” Jack trails off, but it’s enough to make Connor pause, to realize that he’s breathing heavily, his palms are clenched.  _ Anxiety _ . It’s like Dylan’s right there saying that word to him. Except it doesn’t feel like it did last time. This time, Connor’s angry. He wants to scream. 

“I’m being what? Angry? Frustrated? At the end of my rope? No kidding, how surprising when I have a game tomorrow that I can’t focus on because I’m trying to learn about something that I don’t understand  _ at all  _ because my  _ best friend _ decided to literally erase pieces of his memory. We’re trying to find a spell I cannot figure out how he even managed to do considering it is not his forte and from what I understand it should be impossible.”

Jack blinks at him, but Connor’s brain doesn’t consciously register it. He’s too busy pushing through, banging his books together in his frustration.

“And that doesn’t even touch on glace, where somehow, even though I was called up early because our team sucks so bad, I’m expected to somehow drag them through the whole season and to a championship - which is physically  _ impossible _ by the way - while managing to deal with my school work and exams.” 

“Whoa, okay-”

“And to top it all off, I can’t figure out why the fuck Dylan would erase his fucking memory! It’s inconsiderate because now I have to figure out his shit on top of my shit. It’s selfish! Why didn’t he  _ think _ first? It affects other people. Just because he’s ended his own pain doesn’t mean he’s healing anyone else. He’s made it worse!”

 “Connor.” 

It’s sharp like a whip crack, but it jolts Connor’s attention away from the slamming books. He inhales sharply, like it’s his first one in hours. It hurts his chest to do it and the world spins around the edges. 

“Hey. Focus.” 

Jack’s eyes are blue. So blue, blue enough that it becomes Connor’s focus. Jack’s murmuring something that he can’t catch, but it’s low and patterned and Connor can feel his pulse slowing in increments. 

“Three, four, five. Out.”

“Sorry,” Connor eventually croaks out.

“Sorry. He’s sorry. For having a fucking anxiety attack. Jesus.” 

Connor chokes on a weird laugh. It’s grounding to have Jack be just an asshole, totally normal, not coddling him or concerned. Jack doesn’t sugarcoat things. He never has, as long as Connor’s known him, floating in and out of his periphery in classes, in the dining hall, on the rink. 

“Like, look. I know what dealing with a lot looks like, okay? I’ve been doing it since I was fourteen. It looks like you. The only difference is I’m used to balancing too much shit and still managing to like, keep mine together.”

“I’m fine.” 

“You’re not. But that’s fine. You’re being nice, and whatever, because Strome’s your bff. I don’t get it, because he did this to himself so he should deal with the consequences. Which I would let him do on his own, so congrats on being a good, supportive, ass-rescuing friend.”

The weird laughter comes again, and Connor thinks he sees Jack’s face shift, just for a moment, into something a little softer. “You’re telling me if Hanifin lost his memory you wouldn’t want to get it back?” 

“Are you kidding me? It would be a godsend if Hanny lost his memory. He knows too much.”

The change in topic is helping Connor focus. It’s getting his brain off of his list of things and onto a singular topic. The fact that Jack’s broad shoulders are still loose and calm is going a long way to helping Connor stay that way too. Jack hasn’t once raised his voice, hasn’t once added any inflection beyond the mild offense that always seems to colour his tone. 

“Plus. We’ve got this. Well. I’ve got this. You’re along for the ride which I guess is pretty okay. You’re useful at least. You know how to do research.”

“Thanks. I think.” 

Jack makes a face like he’s swallowed a lemon. “You don’t need the padding on your ego.” 

Connor thinks he’s starting to get it - he’s starting to get Jack. He’s starting to learn to read between the lines, to understand what Jack is really saying with all of its barbs and spikes. 

“No really, Jack.” It might be the first time Connor’s actually called him by his given name. “Thank you.” 

“Soft,” is Jack’s immediate response, but there’s something there, in his voice, in his face, that makes Connor think it’s hit home. “Now go to bed, dumbass. Your bags are going to be suitcases if you keep up all this heavy lifting.” 

It takes a little while for Connor to get to sleep, but he feels more rested in the morning than he thought he’d be. 

(It helps that they win their glace game, too.)

 

Connor’s face haunts Jack’s dreams. 

Literally, which is incredibly disconcerting, but metaphorically too. He can’t stop reliving that moment, the look on Connor’s face, the sharpness to the tone of his rant, the goddamn humanity of it all. 

And fuck, Jack’s taken the courses. He gets that there’s a validation element here, that Connor is feeling what he’s feeling and it’s not that Jack wants to make that less. But Jack also took the courses on imposter syndrome and anxiety and depression and mental illness in magic and he knows that at the end of the day, it’s all a story. A story that can be changed and flipped and re-told from multiple points of view that can alter the original story so completely that it’s not The Story anymore. It’s not Connor’s story. 

“I know that face,” Noah says, under his breath. McLellan’s still lecturing and Jack cannot focus. Which is an abomination. He loves Charms. 

“It’s my normal face.”

“It’s the face you get before you pull four all-nighters and spend forty-eight hours nattering in my ear about some new rabbit hole you’ve fallen down.”  

Jack glances around before he leans in. “Excuse you. I do not fall down rabbit holes.” 

“You wrote an entire speech on the importance of women’s empowerment and warriorship status after watching  _ Moana _ . For fun.” 

“ _ Moana  _ is a masterpiece.” 

“I’m sure it is, Mr. Eichel, but unfortunately we don’t deal with environmental magic in this class,” McLellan says. Jack can feel his face flush, just barely, because his complexion cannot give him a break. Like  _ Moana _ is embarrassing; it’s a goddamn masterpiece and Jack will own that shit. McLellan starts talking again and Jack dutifully follows along for the rest of the class.

The thing is, it gets stuck.  _ Moana _ , specifically, like an earworm, but the movie version and Jack knows the only way to handle it is to actually watch the damn thing. Which is inconvenient because he also has a lot of work to do. 

Which is when the idea pops into his head. 

For the first time in an eon, Jack doesn’t let himself overthink it. 

_ You in your dorm?  _ Jack texts. 

Connor’s reply is instant.  _ Yep, why? _

Jack doesn’t reply, for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. He grabs his laptop and makes his way across the school, up the most treacherous stairwell and through a hallway with a bunch of famous paintings - like anyone needs a reminder of all of the amazing talent that has come out of the East house. 

He knows the password, because East never changes it because they’re dumb, and he walks right up to Connor’s door. 

“Jack?” Connor asks when he opens the door, stunned in a way that’s almost comical, but also touched? Whatever. Everyone knows Connor’s white bread soft.

“We’re taking a break,” Jack states, definitive in the way he pushes past Connor and makes himself at home on Connor’s bed. DeBrusk is there, but he doesn’t even look up, glued to whatever he’s watching. There’s no one else around, which is a bonus. He doesn’t want to deal with more than the mocking he’s getting from Noah over his apparent ‘obsession’ with Connor. 

“A break?” Connor says, and just the way he says it - slow and measured - is amusing enough that Jack can’t help but snort. 

“Yes, add that word to your dictionary. It means: ‘to watch a movie or do something equally as enjoyable and brainless that you forget about real life for two minutes’. Hurry up, it’s already queued up and ‘You’re Welcome’ has been stuck in my head since Charms.” 

Connor’s bed, just like everyone else’s, is just short of being a double. It’s generally enough for one person, even one big person and a smaller person, but neither Jack nor Connor is the definition of small. It doesn’t seem to bother Connor, who leans maybe a little farther into Jack’s personal space than Jack’s expecting. 

“I didn’t know you liked  _ Moana,” _ Connor says and there’s a smile on his face that makes Jack’s stomach do inexplicable backflips. Inconvenient, considering Jack is also apparently incapable of pushing Connor away.

Jack frowns. “It’s a classic. Besides having a killer soundtrack, the storyline and animation is phenomenal and focuses on themes of female empowerment and the importance of independence and creativity in problem solving-”

“Okay, okay,” Connor interrupts, and he’s the one giggling now. It’s cute. 

Shit.

It isn’t cute. It’s… Connor’s not cute. 

Connor nudges him, eyebrow raised, like he knows Jack’s just been sucker punched. He mutters a soundproofing charm so the sound doesn’t travel to the rest of the dorm, and points to the screen. “Start it.” 

Connor’s asleep before Moana even finds Maui. Jack should leave. He has no reason to stay. Connor’s taking his break, which was one of Jack’s goals for this whole thing, but Jack doesn’t move. He’ll tell people later - DeBrusk in particular because he’s a nosy shit, and that’s a lesson Jack will never forget - that he hadn’t wanted to wake Connor up, that they’re working on a project and Jack refuses to fail because Connor can’t pull his weight. But the reality is Jack likes Connor’s weight against his side, more than he should, more than is any definition of right considering his name still makes Jack feel murderous and sick to his stomach. 

But maybe, just maybe, while his name pisses Jack off, Connor himself does not, and Jack is absolutely not thinking about what that means. 

  
  


Their movie watching habit changes things. Connor fundamentally doesn’t understand the hows or whys of it, but it all feels different the next time he and Jack settle into the library, books spread around them. It’s all giant tomes that are terrifying to even look at, but Jack seems unfazed by all of it. 

“It’s a lot of polysyllabic words,” Jack says absently when Connor just kind of stares. “Full on academic texts. We’re not hitting the baby steps first.” 

“Perfect,” Connor agrees, determined. His mind is clear. He’s ready. 

They power through two of the books and Connor finds himself absently grinning, half because Jack murmurs to himself as he studies and writes with such erratic sharp scrapes of the pen that Connor has to remind himself Jack’s not angry, he’s just focused. It reminds him of the rink, really. He’s seen this time and time again, trying to figure out Jack’s game so he can defend against it. 

The other half is because he  _ gets it _ . He understands what he’s reading and as he learns more and more about how muggles use psychology - which is not new to him, but a subject he knows only a surface-level amount - he finds he can understand why Jack loves it so much. 

It’s productive, to say the least. Well, that’s how Connor feels about it, anyway. Enough so that he gets lost in the learning so when his phone buzzes softly in his pocket, it’s not the message that catches his eye, but the time. 

“Holy shit, we’ve been here for _ ever _ ,” Connor exclaims, looking up at Jack. 

Jack jolts, his head coming up and eyes still a little glassy. “What?”

“It’s so late,” Connor says on a little bit of a laugh. Dylan and Mitch don’t get lost in their work the way Connor does and it’s refreshing to find someone who is as intense about learning as Connor is. 

“We missed dinner,” he goes on and his stomach rumbles in affirmation. He starts packing up his things. “The kitchen’s always open though. We should go and get some food.” 

“We?” 

Connor’s movements hitch and he glances up at Jack. His eyes are still a little unfocused, like it’s taking him a while to come out of his headspace. It’s… maybe it’s a little cute. “Jack.” 

It takes a moment for Jack’s eyes to clear, and a couple of extra blinks. Then he frowns and it’s such a tell that Jack’s finally back with him that Connor almost laughs. “Do you even know where the kitchen is?” 

“Of course I do,” Connor replies rolling his eyes. “You don’t have a monopoly on late night snacks.”

“And that’s a damn shame,” Jack says absently. 

Connor waits patiently as Jack packs up, then shoulders his bag and falls into step with him. “We’ll take the passage?” 

“Passage?” Jack asks. “It’s called a hallway.”

Connor lets his smile turn sly. “My turn to teach you something.” 

It’s only a few minutes later that they’re halfway to the secret passage, and Connor’s mind wanders to all of the late-night options the kitchen offers. 

“I can’t wait to get my hands on some apple crumble.” 

Jack stops dead in his tracks. He turns to Connor with a weirdly angry look on his face. 

“What the fuck,” Jack spits out. Taken aback, Connor tries to find a reply, but Jack continues instead. “Apple crumble is an abomination.” He clearly pronounces the last word. 

Connor almost wants to laugh, but Jack looks dead serious. “Um, really?” He asks.

“Connor,” Jack says, long-suffering, “the only way to enjoy apples in any baked form is apple pie.”

“Pie doesn’t have the crumble,” Connor replies. “That’s the best part.”

“Doesn’t have the- are you-  _ What? _ ” 

Connor opens his mouth to reply, but Jack’s already off with, “‘The crumble is the best part’. Bullshit. Are you insane? Pie. Pie is the only appropriate and  _ patriotic _ way to cook apples. Crumble is what happens when your crust is screwed up and you have an hour to make a half-decent dessert. It is the  _ accident _ of desserts. Apple pie is the American dream. It is a warm hug -  _ literally _ , since the crust keeps the apples warm instead of looking like something vomited on your plate that vaguely resembles cold and congealed… they’re not even apples!”

Connor is really, really trying not to laugh. This is obviously very important to Jack, but maybe that’s what makes it a little comical. Either way, they’re walking again and only a short ways away from the entrance. It’s easy enough for Connor to say maybe a little too innocently, “I didn’t mean to insult your country, Jack. If it makes you feel better, I’ll get a nanaimo bar instead.” He knows he’s probably teasing just a little too much, but when Jack just huffs, Connor figures he’s okay. 

“You’re getting apple pie,” Jack replies definitively. “Obviously your education failed somewhere and it needs to be fixed like, last month.”

Connor doesn’t have to reply because they’ve reached the painting of the founders of L’Ecole playing glace on the original rink over 500 years ago. He looks at Jack, smiles conspiratorially, and taps the ice three times. Instantly, a small whiteboard appears on the ground, which Connor picks up. 

When he looks at Jack again, Jack’s eyes are wide, staring at the whiteboard with awe. “What the fuck?” 

“We draw a play,” Connor answers. “What do you think? Two-on-one rush?” 

Jack screws his mouth up in thought. “Glace is fucking complicated, what about the people who don’t get it?”

And that’s a thought Connor’s never really given much thought to. “Dylan drew a single pass once when he was craving cookies.” He shakes his head when Jack shoots him an incredulous look. “Getting between Dylan and cookies is just a bad time. Don’t ask.” 

Jack eyes him for a moment before he says, “Two-on-one is too simple. We can do better than that.”

Connor grins. “So, what do you want?” 

They work out a play together, a pretty simple one but contingent on a key  _ stupefy  _ charm. It takes longer than Connor’s usual plays, but it’s a privilege to see how Jack’s mind works - “No way, d-man definitely sees that. It’s a fucking pinch; baby food.” It’s one thing to play against him, but another to trade notes. There’s a niggling thought in the back of his mind about how they’d light it up together and how he wishes they could play on the same team. Just to see.

He goes as far as to huff. “You should be getting called up too.” 

Jack freezes and Connor does too, lets his eyes fall closed because he should know better. He gives himself - and inadvertently Jack - a moment when he tucks the whiteboard into the corner of the portrait. It clicks open and Connor leads Jack through doorway, warm and emitting an aroma indicative of fresh bread. 

They’re greeted by about half a dozen house elves, beaming, greeting them by name, and asking how they can help. He sees Jack open his mouth out of the corner of his eye and blurts out, “Nanaimo bar for me please, no matter what he says.” 

Three elves scatter, calling out about how they’ll get them both some fresh cheddar chive buns and, “would you like tea too, Mr. McDavid?” 

“Yes please. Peppermint.”

“And what about Mr. Eichel? Another late night studying, sir?” 

Connor’s head comes up fast. Jack’s skin is splotchy, like he’s embarrassed at the amount of time he spends making late night kitchen runs. “You’re here a lot?”

Jack shrugs. “Turns out floo powder works on school grounds.” 

Connor can’t help the laugh he barks out, feels like it dissolves whatever tension is still hovering between them over Connor’s call up. Jack’s already turning back to the house elves. 

“Pie,” he says. “Apple pie. The biggest slice you’ve got.” 

The nanaimo bar comes first, perfectly chocolate-y and with the best kind of dash of coconut. It’s everything Connor hadn’t known he’d been craving. However, Jack’s ‘slice of pie’ takes forever. 

Because it ends up being a whole pie. 

Jack seems unfazed, thanking the house elves with a softness that shouldn’t feel as jarring as it does, but Connor has to suppress a giggle. Jack cuts it into slices, measured and calm, considering how aggressively he’d argued with Connor only a few moments before. He wraps one up and thrusts it into Connor’s hands. 

“You’re going to eat this, and you’re going to  _ like it _ , because it is the purest thing in the entire universe.” 

“What about unicorns?” 

Jack groans. “Are you always this insufferable?” 

“Pretty much,” Connor says, but it doesn’t feel insulting. It feels warm in his stomach, and a smile slips over his face as he follows Jack from the kitchen. It’s a companionable silence, neither of them too keen to get caught in the halls after curfew. They separate at the giant tapestry of a Grizzly Bear that denotes Jack’s dorm, Jack to bed because of an early practice and Connor off to the common room to finish up some real homework. 

It’s awkward saying goodbye, but Connor can’t help heading back to his dorm with a smile on his face. 

 

Jack decidedly does not want to get up the next morning. His alarm blares its annoying little tune, and it’s all he can do not to hit snooze. Staring at the ceiling, he motivates himself to get up on pure excitement to get on the ice. Coach Jagr promised shooting drills today, especially since Matt is back from his shoulder injury and will be able to give Jack a real challenge. 

He’s only shot the puck three times, barely warmed up - and only netted one - when Coach is calling him over, standing very close to someone that Jack doesn’t immediately recognize from across the ice. 

“Coach?” Jack asks, and that’s when he recognizes Dustin Byfuglien and does a double take. What the hell is a Varsity North A doing hanging around a Junior Varsity practice?

“Get changed,” Coach says, blunt but with the manic grin Jack’s had to grow used to. “We’ll meet in the room. Buff has something for you.” 

Coach beams at him when he steps into the room a few minutes later. It gives Jack the same impression of pride he’d felt from his dad after his first hattrick, and it’s still disconcerting. So much so that he looks to Dustin instead, who looks interested, but calm. 

“You know Jumbo blew his knee, right?” Dustin starts.

Jack nods. Varsity’s been mum on the details, but losing a guy as important as Jumbo had been a blow to North’s chances. 

“Turns out, it’s season-ending.” Jack must look suitably horrified because Dustin chuckles. “Yeah, sucks. So we’re calling you up.”

There’s a beat, before Jack can say, “What?” 

“We’re invoking our right to pull up a Junior player to sub in. That player is you.” 

Jack’s heart is hammering; he can barely contain his excitement. “For...today’s game?” he asks, cautious. Dustin nods.

“No more practice for you,” Coach Jagr jumps in. “Don’t want you tiring yourself out before going to the big leagues.” He nudges Jack, his smile somehow getting even wider, his eyes crinkling in a way that pulls a helpless grin out of Jack too.

“3:45, okay? Pre-game tape’s at 4 and Coach wants to meet briefly with you first,” Dustin says.

Jack’s nodding, but his voice is thankfully measured when he says, “I can do that. Thank you so much for this opportunity.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Dustin says with a snort. “Help us win.” 

Jack- Jack can do that. He knows he can do that, so he nods, once, sure. “See you later.” 

Jack doesn’t rush to his phone, but it’s a close thing. He almost bowls over an innocent first year in his haste to spread the news. He doesn’t think about it much, presses the little window and keys in,  _ getting called up. _

It isn’t until he hits send and really looks at the conversation that he realizes he’s texted Connor first. It does something to his stomach, makes it flip and flutter with enough butterflies to make him uncomfortable. He scrambles for a minute before giving up and simply texting Hanny the same thing. 

Except, Connor is the first to respond. There isn’t much to it, just a string of exclamation points before the damn thing starts actually ringing in his hand. 

“What the fuck, who even calls anymore?” 

It says something about where he and Connor are at that Connor doesn’t even acknowledge how rude that greeting had been. Instead, he says, “It’s about fucking time.” 

Jack jolts because the Connor he knows swears like that in exactly two situations: anything on the panic spectrum, and on the rink. “Um.”

“No, seriously. It was stupid of them to just not call you up to begin with. The team needs young talent and I get that like, there’s seniority and everything and they never call young players up but it was stupid. But thank fuck they finally got their heads out of their asses.” 

“Um. Thanks? What?” Because honestly, this is surreal and weird, Connor being this defensive. They hadn’t known each other before the Strome Situation - which Jack has deemed deserving of proper capitalization now. Not really, anyway, so for Connor to feel so… invested, definitely takes Jack more than a little off guard. 

“You were good enough to play up last season,” Connor says almost dismissively, and Jack can basically hear him rolling his eyes. 

“You’ve watched me play?”

Connor laughs and it’s this real and nerdy thing that sets off the butterflies again. “I absolutely  _ hated _ playing against you.” 

And Jack… 

Jack knows how good Connor is. He knows the way people talk about Connor, about how they brushed off his ascension to Varsity as inevitable. So even in all the ways he doesn’t want it to, it means something, coming from Connor. Having Connor hate playing against him means he’s a challenge to Connor and he can’t help the way it makes his chest puff a little in pride. “Now you’re going to have to do it in Varsity.” 

And there is something intense and fierce in Connor’s voice when he says “Fucking right.” 

Jack finds himself laughing before he even knows it. 

 

The game is a whirlwind, and it’s everything Jack had dreamed Varsity would be. It’s faster, more skilled, a little more aggressive. And Jack absolutely rises to the challenge. 

He’s not the only one who thinks he had a great game. All the guys are patting him on the back, and he gets three separate invitations to the same party that night. What really matters, though, is that Coach pulls him aside, into the trainer’s room. 

“Great game, Jack,” Coach starts, a genuine smile on his face. “You really fit in well with this team. I’d like to submit your name for emergency exceptional status. I know this is a big thing to think about - you’d probably get more minutes with the Juniors, and I know how valuable you are to that team, but I can guarantee you minutes even if Joe comes back sooner rather than later.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate with his answer. “I’d be honoured, sir.”

Coach nods. “Good to hear. We play East next weekend, the late game. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

East. Connor. Jack grins and pulls out his phone. 

_ Our houses play each other next week. You’re going to get the chance to hate me all over again, _ he texts. 

_ Looking forward to it _ is Connor’s reply.

And, well, Jack can’t help it if there’s a spring in his step on the way back to his dorm. 

 

The weird thing is, there’s a part of Connor that feels like hearing about Varsity would make Jack go radio silent. Connor’s not oblivious to the chip on Jack’s shoulder, nor to the role he inexplicably plays in that chip. 

ButJack does not go radio silent. 

Sure, he doesn’t text Connor 100 times a day or anything. It’s not like their texting increases, but what had once been questions to do with magipsychology - which Jack always answers with clarity and patience - now includes the world’s most random Snaps, and most notably, to Connor’s shock, an actual selfie, sent via text, scolding Connor about sleep. It’s still mostly  _ where are you _ and  _ check your email _ texts, but there’s also witty remarks about a classmate’s new shoes or some pre-season smacktalk about their rivalling glace teams.

At the end of the day, it’s kind of nice to have that contact. It’s nice to know Jack’s not going to let some manufactured glace rivalry get in the way of the other things they’re doing together. 

Still, Connor doesn’t get the chance to see Jack much in the week leading up to their head-to-head game. They have alternating practices, Jack has meeting after meeting, and Connor gets called in on major Dylan diversion duty when Mitch calls explaining that Dylan had brought him Skittles and had asked to study together. 

The point is, Connor’s pretty damn excited to play Jack again. He’s on in practice, some of that his own drive, some of it the excited anxiousness that comes with playing someone as good as Jack. 

Sid taps his stick against Connor’s pads. “You’ve got extra pep in your step.” 

“Big game coming up,” Connor replies, unable to suppress his helpless grin. 

Sid hums a little. 

Sid’s usually open with his feedback, his praise. Connor’s not really sure why he’s hesitating now, or what to do about it. 

“I don’t think I could have done what you’re doing, when I was your age,” is what he says, and Connor’s a little taken aback by it. 

He wants to respond, ‘ _ but you’re Sidney Crosby _ ’, except that’s probably a little too open about his idolization of the guy. 

Sid laughs a little. “They also wouldn’t have let me. But. Glace is glace, right? We’re going to go out and you’re going to play great and we’re going to win.” 

Connor almost laughs, though more out of how stupid it sounds to think the team needs both of them to win. Connor has seen Sid pull wins out of his ass and off his knees. 

“I look up to you, like a lot,” Connor says, unable to hold back the candor. He trusts Sid, and thinks Sid trusts him, even as Connor’s face heats in embarrassment. 

Sid claps Connor on the shoulder, and it kind of feels like when Cam gives Connor his welcome-back bro-hugs. “You’re a really good kid. I wish the rest of the world had half of what you do.” He pauses, pulls his hand back. “Anytime you want to talk, about school, glace, summer training programs, let me know. Hey, maybe we can get you to sign with Pittsburgh a year early, too.” 

Connor’s eyes go wide. “You signed with Pittsburgh?”

Sid looks down, smiling bashfully. “Yeah. It’s, uh, not supposed to be public yet. It’s a little early, but I’m of age, so.”

“Whoa, congrats!” Connor says emphatically. He’s buzzing with it, happy for Sid and letting the excitement that that could be him in a few short years fill him up. 

Sid thanks him and taps his stick against Connor’s pads again. “Okay, let’s get back to practicing. You want to beat your boy, right?” 

That stops Connor in his tracks. “My-my what?”

Sid looks at him quizzically. “Your friend Jack? We’re playing him next, right?” 

Connor’s relieved that that’s all Sid had meant. “Oh! Yeah. Yes. That’ll be fun.” He grins, and follows Sid to the pile of pucks so they can get in on practicing one-timers. 

  
  


Jack’s buzzing as he puts on his pads, his jersey. Changes his song to the one he always puts on to start his warmup. He’s amped that the guys let him do his own thing to get ready. He belongs here, he knows it. He’s just proving it to them. 

The stands are equally as full for junior and senior games, but there’s so much  _ more  _ in the air as he skates onto the ice. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t sway from his routine. He practices faceoffs with Tavares until they’re called off for their final team huddle. Coach puts his line on for the initial faceoff and grins at Jack when he says it. 

Jack chalks it up to coach being confident enough to give Jack this chance, but there’s apparently another motive here. As he flies up to the top ice, he sees Connor flying up too. 

That makes the fire blaze in his stomach. He grins at Connor briefly, can’t help it, but then dials in. 

He wins the faceoff and the game starts. 

 

“Eichs! What a stud!” 

It’s the first thing Connor hears when he leaves his team’s dressing room, head hung low. Every mis-play, every imperfect pass and missed shot is running through his mind and his stomach is churning with it. Processing a loss really isn’t his strong suit. He can’t help it. He wants to win so badly. 

Still, the praise for Jack makes Connor glance up, search for Jack in the crowd. He’s easy spotted, wildly curly hair sticking up above the sea of people in the lobby. 

And maybe it’s dumb, or just a little unexpected, but seeing Jack’s genuine smile dissolves some of the bitterness that had been consuming Connor a moment prior. Jack looks elated in his win, glowing with it. Connor lets himself wallow in it, the stupid sunshine metaphor that Jack is living. He deserves it, Connor knows, had told Jack just that himself. Connor’s just also really,  _ really _ bad at losing. 

He’s startled by someone throwing their arm over his shoulders - Dylan, who’s always been immune to Connor’s post-game B.O. and is grinning wide enough to put Connor instinctively on the defensive.

“So, you gonna hate-fuck him or just ask him for his autograph?” Dylan asks, keeping his voice low because even if he’s an ass, he’s a considerate one.

“Shut up, Stromer,” Connor hisses. “I don’t- it’s not  _ like  _ that.”

Dylan hums, and Connor feels a flush spread high on his cheeks. “Whatever you say. Good game, by the way. You did your best.” 

Dylan means well, he means the compliment, and Connor sighs. “Thanks.” 

“You are so dumb,” Dylan says, shaking Connor with the arm around his shoulders. There’s affection and amusement in his voice and Connor feels like an idiot. He’s not sure why he’s an idiot, but he certainly feels it. 

“McDavid.” 

And well, now Connor has to put on the brave face, even if he wants to be petty about the whole thing. Because at the end of the day, Jack did play a good game, the same game that Connor knew he could play, the kind of game that absolutely means Jack should be playing varsity. Yet Connor  _ hates _ losing. 

“Good game,” he says, and it’s grudging and he hates every syllable. He also hates that he’s grateful when Jack nods once, holds out his hand. Connor shakes it, because he’s a good sport and just as ingrained in the handshake line protocol. 

“Likewise.” 

Something lingers there at least until Connor impulsively squeezes Jack’s hand. It’s not Jack’s fault Connor’s pissy, not really. Jack deserves to know he’s played a good game, and that Connor was fucking right. 

“Yeah, you were alright,” Dylan cuts in and it slices through the moment. Connor’s grateful. It feels more even to have Jack rolling his eyes again. “Davo, Steamies?” 

“Yeah,” Connor manages and it sounds rough and hoarse. He clears his throat. “Want me to shower?” 

“Bud, I always want you to shower,” is Dylan’s vaguely irritated response. “I love glace as much as the next Canadian dude, but you still reek. And I know you post-game shower because you’re so obsessive about your shit, yet you still stink.” 

The babble keeps Connor in the present, and he doesn’t feel like he has to look back at Jack as Dylan leads him away. Instead, he focuses on the maple hot chocolate and beef stew that awaits them. It’ll be enough for now. Maybe later, when Connor’s not feeling quite as petty, he’ll text Jack his real thoughts on the game.

  
  


“Which sweater says ‘honours student’?” Jack asks, holding two of his favourite, most grown-up-looking sweaters up.

Noah doesn’t even look up before he replies, “I think you should worry more about that rat’s nest on your head before picking between two shades of blue.”

“But does this scream Leafs? Because that would be pathetic.”

Noah scoffs. “At least then you’d be admitting what’s going on here.” 

“There’s nothing to admit.”

“Eichs. Jack.” Noah sits up, focuses and that pulls Jack up short, too. “You’re literally trying to suck up to profs to get extra time in the classroom to figure out a potion for a dude you hated until like, two months ago.” 

“One, you’re a dick.”

Noah snorts.

“Two, this is for an independent project, not for McDavid, what the fuck.” 

“You hate potions. It’s like, your worst subject.” 

“Third,” Jack goes on. “My worst subject is divination because honestly, that level of positivity has to be illegal.  _ Fourth,  _ it’s a collaborative project between potions and magipsychology. But  _ more importantly, _ McDavid is the only one of those three with a fucking brain. I’m doing a public service really. The last thing anyone needs is Strome being dumb enough to erase his entire existence because he’s throwing a hissy fit.  _ Again. _ ” 

Noah shakes  his head as he says, “you’re so gone over him.”

Jack huffs, throws on the darker of the two sweaters, and leaves without another word. 

 

“Well, Mr. Eichel,” Dr. Wickenheiser says, “I truly appreciate the initiative you’re showing here, but I’m worried this topic is a little ambitious. I recognize you have quite the aptitude for magipsychology,” she gestures to Dr. Chu, sitting on the same side of the desk as her, “but the theory behind this type of potion is something I didn’t do until my capstone in seventh year.”

Jack nods, keeps his cool. “It’s hard, but I can do it, Dr. Wickenheiser. My history proves I’m willing to put in the time, the work and the research.” 

He looks to Dr. Chu, whose lips are pressed together to conceal a smile. “There is no doubt that you would. And I have seen your passion for these subjects in a way that I know we both want to encourage. If I may ask, what corner of a textbook set you off down this road?” 

It’s a pretty mundane question, and one Jack had been wholly prepared to answer. It’s a good project, it’ll do a lot of good, - there are a million mundane reasons for why this project should happen. But what Jack hears in his head is Noah teasing him about Connor, and it takes him longer than he’d like to say, “It’s a problem. I see it in my classes, people who can’t shut their brains off long enough to actually believe they can do anything. And it’s dumb, Dr Wickenheiser. It’s a story that people tell themselves when they can’t find the good parts of who they are. A project like this could help us tap into the potential people forget they have. Anxiety is debilitating and it shouldn’t be, because it shouldn’t be a thing.

“This would give people the opportunity to clear their mind enough to be able to  _ think _ . It’s deep breathing exercises without the time constraints; a sedative without the power. Magic has to be able to help here, otherwise, why do we even have it?”

Dr. Wickenheiser’s face is neutral, but she looks to Dr. Chu, who shrugs as if to say,  _ told you. _

“We’d need a formal statement of intent, one page maximum, including how you plan to juggle your time with your other classes and curriculars,” Dr. Wickenheiser says.

“And the three of us will need to submit a formal application to the Ethics and Research Committee in three weeks. No more,” Dr. Chu adds. She’s smiling, and Jack can’t help but smile back, just a bit. 

“I understand,” Jack replies, measured. “I’ll get you that statement of intent by Potions tomorrow.”

Both professors smile, and Jack feels like he just won a championship. 

  
  


Connor wants to throw down his pencil, maybe chuck it across the library. He’s about three seconds from yelling and getting thrown out altogether.  

It’s just… a lot. 

Everything is a lot. There’s school and now the senior team and Connor isn’t totally sure when and where he’s supposed to breathe. He has charms homework and transfiguration homework, but he has four practices this week and a test in muggle studies, plus four feet on mental health and the incorrect use of sleeping droughts…. 

“You skipped dinner again.” 

Connor grunts from behind his potions textbook, barely acknowledges Dylan’s presence even as Dylan slips him a roll. Connor tears into it without looking up from the book. “Thanks.” 

“Did you sleep last night?” 

Connor hesitates for a moment too long before he says, “Yes.” 

“How long,” Dylan deadpans.

Connor swallows, feels like a kid admitting he broke a vase. “A few hours.”

Dylan sighs, but sits beside him like he’s done so many times before, throws an arm around Connor just to hold him close. Connor feels his shoulders sag and drops his head to Dylan’s shoulder. 

“Want me to walk you to the dining hall?” Dylan asks. It’s not a question whether Connor goes to eat right now, he realizes. It’s just whether he walks alone or with Dylan. 

“Only if you want to,” Connor says, voice small. 

Dylan just stares at him. 

“No, I’m okay.” Connor says, finally. 

Dylan gets settled as Connor packs up. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Connor thanks Dylan only with a smile. 

He realizes too late, halfway to the dining hall, that he’s actually not okay. His head gets woozy and he can’t breathe and he has to sit down  _ now _ . 

Someone catches him on the way down and he’s too embarrassed to look up. He puts his head between his knees, barely managing to shrug his backpack off. 

“Easy there, captain.” 

Jack. 

“I can’t-” Connor says, but his voice is thin and high and he actually thinks he might not be able to breathe. 

“Christ, we’re there. Okay,” Jack’s voice is even and strong, but it’s  _ not  _ okay. He’s in public, people can see this, anyone who walks down the hall the same way Jack did and there’s nothing Connor can do about it because he can’t move _. _

“No one’s here. It’s just me. And there’s a hallway like, six steps to your left so we can go whenever you’re ready,” Jack says. Connor’s not sure if he had said anything out loud or if Jack just understands. He certainly sounds steady and less judgemental than the sliver of his functioning brain would have expected. Connor doesn’t actually care either way. Everything is falling apart and Connor can’t keep it together. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes as he starts crying, huge tears falling down his cheeks and his forehead aches with the pressure of it.

“You gotta breathe, okay?” Jack says, that same steady, strong voice. It’s grounding and Connor works to focus on it. It’s easier when Jack wraps his hand around Connor’s wrist. “I’m going to squeeze for in, release for out. Ready?” 

For the first few breaths, it only makes everything worse. Slowly, however, his mind clears, and it’s easier to open his eyes. His throat doesn’t feel so tight, his chest less like there’s an elephant settled on it. He hears Jack murmur something before a tissue appears under Connor’s bent leg, into the little space that Connor’s body has made on the steps. Connor grabs it, just holds it to his nose. 

“Now we’re getting it. I’m going to let go. Keep the rhythm.” 

It’s harder without Jack attached to him, counting the seconds for him but the little bit of clarity helps. He can see Jack’s shoe and makes his eyes focus on it, counts his laces. He wants to say something, anything, but he can’t do that and breathe at the same time. 

He hates that he’s gotten this bad. He’s been so good, so careful. It’s so important to him that he never reach this point. It’s scary for everyone involved and always lands him in the Hospital Wing. Recovering without medical care is slow and arduous and Connor has no idea how Jack’s still sitting there, but yeah, it does get better. His face is a mess, gross with tears, but he can’t deny that his head is clearer. 

“Hey, look at me.” 

He can’t. His face is too gross. 

“Come on, Connor.” 

Connor shakes his head. But Jack had used his given name and it’s a moment to acknowledge. Still, it takes him more than a few beats to do it. He only feels a little self-conscious, more focused on Jack’s blue eyes over his own red-rimmed ones. There’s something fierce there, angry like Jack usually is, but not annoyed, not with Connor. 

“My dorm,” Jack says, orders really. 

Connor sniffles again and shakes his head. He kind of just wants a shower. “I need to eat.” 

“Hanny can bring food.” Jack’s already whipping his phone out even as he eyes Connor critically. “And water. That shit has to be dehydrating.” 

And Connor is tired. He’s so tired, and it’s nice to have someone who seems prepared to take it all off his hands. No decisions, no need to keep his head afloat. Jack will; Jack’s willing. 

“Can I use your shower?” 

Jack searches his face again, like he’s debating what his next words could be. Connor has no idea what’s going through his head, but Jack eventually says, “Yeah.”

So Connor showers when he gets to Jack’s dorm, and when he comes out, there’s food and a massive jug of water, but no Noah. Enough food, as it turns out, that Jack has to pitch in to eat it all, and a water jug charmed to keep refilling. They’re almost the entire way through  _ Aladdin _ before Connor remembers. 

Dylan. 

“Yeah, I texted him,” Jack replies. “I don’t think he trusts me.” 

“I do,” Connor offers without thinking, because it’s not a lie, and Jack has been nothing but… neutral at the very least. It’s been enough for Connor. “Thank you.” 

Jack’s staring at him when Connor looks up, and Connor has absolutely no idea what’s on Jack’s face. Eventually, he swallows, hard enough that Connor can hear it. “Yeah, sure.” 

Connor nods, then tucks himself under Jack’s covers. He falls asleep pressed against Jack’s side. 

  
  


As weird as things are between Dylan and Mitch, Dylan and Connor are best friends. It’s weird to lie to him, because Connor avoids even the mention of Mitch, but it’s easier to just be himself, the way he always is with Dylan. Connor needs Dylan as much as Dylan needs Connor, and it’s that bond that keeps Connor from going completely out of his mind during midterms. 

They’re six hours into a Potions/History of Magic study session when Dylan closes Connor’s textbook and starts packing up his things. 

“We’re taking a break,” Dylan declares. Connor wants to protest right up until Dylan says, “Come on, we’ll go to the Endless Field after we stop by the kitchen for some snacks.”

Connor follows dutifully, feeling the headache he didn’t even know was there start to subside. They go through the secret passage just for fun, and by the time they get to the Endless Field - a room charmed to have an infinite number of sunny and shady spots, no bugs, and the perfect length of grass no matter the time of year - Connor notices the tightness missing from his shoulders. 

Dylan leads them to a shady spot and closes his eyes almost as soon as he lies down, and Connor follows suit. He does something Dylan has had to teach him time and again: deep breath in through his nose, a twice-as-long breath out through his mouth. 

“Love you, Davo,” Dylan says, almost absently. 

“Love you too, Stromer.” It’s easy to say, as always. 

“You doin’ okay?” Dylan asks. It’s curious in a way that lets Connor know he’s definitely been acting weird, and Dylan’s noticed. 

“I’m fine,” Connor replies. It’s not nearly as convincing as he’d hoped.

“You’ve been off for a few weeks,” Dylan says kindly. “Just want to see how I can help. You know you can always vent to me.”

Connor’s quiet for a few moments. Breathes in. Breathes out. 

“Just wish I was…” Connor sighs. He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Dylan waits patiently until it’s clear Connor isn’t going to offer up anything else. “You’re always going to be enough, Davo. You’re a great friend, and you’ll always do your best. Don’t beat yourself up over little things.” 

Connor moves closer, puts his head on Dylan’s chest. “Thanks.” 

Dylan shifts so his arm is more comfortably tucked around Connor’s back. He doesn’t reply. 

They don’t study for the rest of the day, and Connor’s weirdly okay with it. 

  
  


In hindsight, Jack’s surprised that Hanny doesn’t notice it sooner. 

They’re sprawled on Noah’s bed, Jack lamenting Wickenheiser’s fourth dismissal of his project proposal. His shirt has ridden up, he can feel it, and maybe that’s the sole reasons it shouldn’t surprise him when Noah says, “I didn’t know you got another tattoo.” 

Jack freezes. The only “tattoo” people know about is the trophy on his arm - every other fatemark has shown up somewhere that is easily hidden and Jack’s learned people will believe their own assumptions before he has to explain. The celtic knot that sits around the area of his right kidney, clearly on display. 

Noah knows Jack too well, obviously, because he can tell he’s struck a nerve. “Dude, it’s just a tattoo. You’ve literally never been nervous about ink before.” He taps Jack’s forearm for good measure, where the trophy stands out against his skin. “Though what the hell made you get this? It’s too sentimental to be you.” 

“I didn’t choose it,” Jack snaps back. Noah’s right. He’s never once been nervous about any tattoos he has, and he has a couple, separate from the fatemarks. People commenting on them has never made him this antsy either. 

Noah looks confused. “You let someone pick it out for you? Were you drunk?”

Jack squirms. “It’s like. A birthmark, or whatever.” 

He turns back to his laptop, but Noah, in pure Noah form, isn’t ready to let it go. “Birthmarks look like trophies and celtic knots? I’m pretty sure that’s not what we learned a birthmark is.”

Jack furrows his eyebrows. “You know what a celtic knot looks like?” 

“My family’s crest has one that looks like yours, just a little different.” Noah pauses, then a manic grin spreads across his face. “Did you get a friendship tattoo for me, Eichs, and you’re trying to cover it up?”

Frustration rips through Jack and he sighs hugely, rolling his eyes so Hanny knows exactly how lame Jack thinks he is. “It has nothing to do with you. I just get these marks sometimes, and this one happens to be a celtic knot.” 

“Like soulmarks?”

Jack huffs. He’s in it now and he knows it. “Yes and no. Jessie thinks they’re similar. But I don’t have one, you know? And you only have one soulmate.” 

“Research is starting to say otherwise,” Noah argues and flops back so his head is settled on his other pillow. “But that’s not the point, is it?” 

Jack finds himself shaking his head. “They’re different. It’s complicated.” 

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Eichel,” Noah snaps, brows knit like he’s offended. 

“It’s not shit, it’s legit,” he argues. “It’s complicated. There’s no systematic research, and the reports that are out there are super contradictory. You think I haven’t looked this shit up my whole life? No one knows a damn thing about fatemarks except that they’re different.” 

Hanny hums. "And when exactly did this mark show up?” he asks, tapping the cotton where Jack’s pulled his shirt back down. “Right around first year, when you and I got paired up in rec quidditch?" 

 “About a week later,” Jack replies.

Noah looks contemplative. “What else?” 

“The trophy,” Jack admits. “Probably for hockey.”

“Probably?” 

“They just show up,” Jack explains. “I kind of have to guess why they’re there. It’s not like there’s some sort of magic moment that tells me yes, this is about Noah Hanifin, or this is about my glace team.” 

“You sure about that?” 

Jack looks over at Noah. “I think I’d know. They’re on my body.” 

“You’re allergic to feelings. And if these are a relative of soulmarks, we’re lucky you haven’t broken out in hives at the mere existence of one, let alone…” 

Jack knows what he’s aiming for and wrinkles his nose. “A few.” 

Noah waits a moment, then nods. “Okay, fine, a few.”

Noah doesn’t prod any further, but Jack feels a strange sense of relief. It’s not the worst, having someone know about the fatemarks. 

The celtic knot seems a little darker the next morning when Jack inspects it in the mirror, but that’s probably just his imagination. 

 

It hits Jack at the most inconvenient time. He’s squatting his normal weight, not wanting to push himself too hard before practice, when something Wickenheiser said to him the other day finally clicks. 

He huffs, finishes his set, and grabs his stuff to run back to his dorm. 

_ Dorm. Now _ , he texts Connor. He knows Connor’s schedule for the day - it’s become habit at this point - and Connor’s either eating or watching the Leafs-Panthers game in his bed. 

Connor’s waiting for Jack outside the common room door, looking worried. He’s wearing his Leafs hoodie and Jack notices a charmed little scoreboard on the wrist. “You’re such a nerd.”  

“What’s wrong?” Connor replies, and Jack does not like it when his chirps go ignored.  

Jack shakes his head. “Relax, McUptight. It’s the opposite. I need to try something out on you.” 

Connor’s shoulders drop and his face softens. “Of course, anything.” 

Jack appreciates it, if he’s honest. But he doesn’t voice it, just pulls out his laptop and downloads the paper still sitting in an unread email. 

“Wickenheiser was telling me the other day about the importance of emotions in remembering or misremembering something. She’s trying to get me to finally pick a spell or potion to make my research project, and thought memory might interest me. I didn’t think anything of it, but-”

He cuts himself off to see Connor bouncing on his toes, hands firmly tucked into the front pouch of his hoodie. “But you think that activating Dylan’s emotions could activate his memories of Mitch,” he finishes.

Jack smirks. “Essentially. Can I try this spell on you?”

Connor shrugs. “Sure. What do I have to do?”

“First, sit down. You’re making me nervous.” Connor sits, poorly hiding his excitement. “Okay, now tell me about how you felt during the first Maple Leafs game you ever went to.” 

Connor’s face screws up. “Uh, it was a thrill? I don’t know, I don’t remember much. I was, like, six. I know we had nosebleed seats and I thought there were way too many people there. I think we lost because I was pretty sad on the ride home.”

“Good enough for me,” Jack says. He’s not even sure if it was necessary to get all that information, but better safe than sorry. He says the spell slowly, and isn’t all that surprised when Connor sways a bit. 

“Do you remember anything else, now?” Jack asks.

It’s as if Connor is watching a game, his eyes darting back and forth watching a play. “Tucker has the puck. He turns it over to the Wings defenseman after being hit with a yellow spell. I don’t know the spell but Cam starts booing, calling for a penalty. The Wings score, and the game’s over. I put my popcorn down and Cam grabs my hand, leading me through the crowd to go home.” He starts to tear up, like his six-year-old self wanted to cry and he’s reliving it all.

“Connor.  _ Connor _ .” Jack puts his hand on Connor’s shoulder, shakes a bit. His heart skips a beat when Connor looks right at him, but that’s probably just because he’s surprised by the smile on Connor’s face contrasting with the tears in his eyes. 

“It’s so clear, all of a sudden. But so are a bunch of games that I’ve lost. Like, not just Leafs games that I've watched. Losing the championship game in a tournament. The first time I had to watch my team lose because I was injured. It's all so clear, Jack."

“Whoa,” Jack says. Well no wonder this paper was published. It's the real deal. "The memories will fade again, over time," Jack reassures. "Do you want to do the spell again with something happier, so you don't have to dwell on this?" 

Connor shakes his head, smiling. "Nah, I don't mind. Thanks for the offer though. I'm happy enough knowing this could work on Dylan." 

Jack realizes too late that he’s just smiling back. And he’s sitting way too close to Connor. 

The sleeve of Connor’s hoodie lights up, and the  _ 2 _ beside the Leafs logo changes to a  _ 3\.  _ It’s enough to remind Jack that shit, he has practice.

“I have to go,” Jack says, grabbing his dorm key. “I’ll text you later, okay? Just close the door on your way out. It’s charmed to auto-lock.” 

He leaves Connor sitting on his bed, and doesn’t look back.

 

Sometimes, after they’ve done some research on the Strome Situation, Connor and Jack study together, too. It always ends in a conversation about the Strome Situation, which Jack doesn’t necessarily hate, but Connor’s a lot more tolerable when he’s just dealing with regular life stress, not Dylan stress. There’s hope now, at least; ever since the spell worked Jack’s been doing cross-referencing and extra research to ensure that the spell would have an effect on Dylan. All signs are pointing to yes, so Jack and Connor set a date with Mitch to cast the spell - after midterms, when their minds are significantly clearer - and Jack can go back to focusing on school. 

Something about Connor sparks ideas for Jack’s extra research project. Memory is something with infinite research possibilities, and the experience with Connor remembering the Leafs game intrigues Jack more than a whole lot of other ideas Wickenheiser has thrown his way. 

There’s something else, though, that Jack didn’t realize would pop up in his thoughts so often: the feelings associated with memory. It becomes specifically about Connor’s feelings, and then about the tangible anxiety that Jack watches Connor try so hard to hide. 

Jack realizes he’s spiraling too late. He’s in Wickenheiser’s class, where she’s lecturing about something she and Jack had already discussed the week prior, when the idea hits him so clearly he’s drafting the email before he realizes he’s navigated away from his notes.

_ RE: RESEARCH PROJECT _

_ Dr. Wickenheiser, _

_ I’ve picked my topic. I’m available Friday morning to talk about the details. _

_ Thanks, _

_ Jack _

He’s not going to tell anyone about it - not Hanny, certainly not Connor - because he doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. Especially not his own. 

But for the first time this semester, he’s excited to start on his research application.

 

Connor is absolutely flying at practice. He’s not really sure what’s different today - maybe his sleep was better than he realized, maybe it was that he had rye toast instead of whole wheat at breakfast - but it’s like he can feel where the other guys are on the ice, can see exactly where the puck is going to be. It’s amazing, and he’s grinning more than he ever has after practice, when Dylan intercepts him in the hallway by the dressing rooms. 

“Hey man,” Dylan says, and something’s not quite right behind his eyes, his hands in his hoodie pockets. “You wanna study together today?” 

Something about the way he asks, the way he’s standing, makes the hairs on Connor’s neck stand up, but he maintains his composure as he replies, “Love to, Stromer. Wanna grab us some sandwiches from the Hall and meet me at Moose?”

Dylan relaxes, much to Connor’s relief. “Sounds good. Same password?” 

Connor confirms it is, then rushes to the dressing room to take a shower. He speeds through his post-practice routine, blushing when a few guys ask him what charm he put on his water today. Then he’s walking into the East Common Room, where Dylan has a table with the comfiest chairs by the window. 

Because he knows Dylan better than anyone, Connor wais for Dylan to be a full sandwich in before he starts any conversations. 

“What’re you working on today?” Connor asks, keeping the topic light. 

Dylan gives a long-suffering sigh. “Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he replies. “Gotta wrap my head around anti-possession artifacts ‘cause I hear Cooper’s gonna make a whole written on ‘em.” 

Connor nods, smiles. “Let me know if you figure it out. I’m useless at those too.”

It’s not long after Connor gets his own homework out that he sees Dylan worrying his lower lip between his teeth, stuck on the same part of his notes for too long. He’s distracted, and everything in Connor is yelling to figure out what’s wrong.

“You okay?” Connor asks softly, and can see the moment Dylan cracks.

“Is Marns mad at me?” he asks, and Connor’s heart sinks. 

“I...did he say something?” Connor deflects.

Dylan’s mouth screws up, like he’s seriously consider his next words. “No, he didn’t. I think that’s the problem. He’s barely talking to me, and when he does it’s like he’s talking to someone he just met, just being...polite, I guess? Like I don’t mean anything to him.”

It’s quiet. Connor’s holding his breath.

“Fuck, that sounds really dramatic,” Dylan says, scoffing. “I’m probably just being dumb.”

Everything in Connor is bursting to reach out, to open up, to do  _ something _ other that what he actually does, which is to say, “You’re not dumb, don’t be...dumb. He’s probably just stressed.”

Dylan, somehow, looks even sadder. “He’s all smiles and rainbows with everyone  _ else, _ though. I can see him in the halls, how he just stops smiling when he sees me. You’re sure he hasn’t said anything to you?” 

Connor shakes his head. “Promise, Dyls. But I’ll talk to him, won’t tell him you said anything to me. That okay?” 

The corner of Dylan’s mouth twitches up, enough to ease the knot in Connor’s stomach just a tad. 

“Yeah, yeah. That’d be great. Thanks Davo,” Dylan says, relief evident in his voice.

“No problem,” Connor says, and tries not to feel like the worst fucking person on the planet. 

 

Jack walks into the grad potions lab wearing his other blue sweater, the one he hadn’t worn to his initial meeting. He’d be lying if he denied the excitement buzzing through him like an electric current, but he hides it expertly as he finds Dr. Wickenheiser in her office. 

“Ah, Jack!” she welcomes, and instead of offering for him to sit down, she stands up and leads him back into the lab. “I know Dr. Chu gave you a few papers to read, but I wanted to start you off with some practical learning for the potions side of this project. How much experience do you have with mood altering potions?”

Jack holds back from making a joke about recreational mood-altering potions he keeps hidden under Noah’s bed. Instead he says, “Not much, honestly. I like potions enough, but I don’t have the experience that I do with magipsych.”

Dr. Wickenheiser looks at him for a moment. “Yet you chose a potion.” 

“Potions have practical applications with peer reviewed results.” 

“It’s an excellent stock answer, but we’re not talking about the cure for the common cold here.” Because Dr Wickenheiser has never suffered fools a day in her life. Jack idolizes her. 

Jack considers his answer carefully. He’s not in the business of outing people to others, nor in idle gossip, shut the fuck up Hanifin. “Anxiety is something that affects people every day. Anxiety attacks are terrifying for everyone involved. It would be nice to stop them before they start, or at least help them settle before you’re hyperventilating.”

“You sound like you speak from experience,” Wickenheiser says slowly, like she’s choosing her words. 

“Not mine.” It’s as much as Jack’s willing to admit. He’s worked hard to not be anxious about the things he does. He doesn’t have the time to be anxious. 

“Okay.” Dr. Wickenheiser nods, then it’s all back to professionalism. “I’d like you to make an energy potion -  _ incitamentum _ . It’s similar to drinking a coffee, but without the crash, and it keeps the person perfectly awake for 48 hours. It’s a demanding potion, and it has many techniques that you’ll need to master before we continue. I’ll demonstrate a step on my cauldron, then you do the same for me, alright?”

“Can do,” Jack agrees. 

They set up, and get to work. 

  
  


They’re trying the spell tomorrow, and it leaves Connor completely useless for his FaceTime date with Cam. He can’t put a single thought together, let alone focus. He doesn’t even realize Cam has stopped telling his story until Cam says, “Connor.” 

“Yeah?” And when Cam just huffs, sighs. “Sorry.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it, or do you wanna go to bed?” 

Connor sighs, loves his brother so much for this. “Bed.” 

That earns him a sympathetic smile. “Text me tomorrow, okay? Whatever it is, don’t be so hard on yourself.” 

It helps, actually. “Thanks.”

Cam says his goodbye and hangs up. It only takes Connor two seconds to sigh again and sit up, knowing what he needs to do. He grabs his hoodie and dorm key and lets his muscle memory carry him to Jack’s door. When Jack answers, he looks about the same as Connor feels, which only tells Connor that he made the right decision. 

He shrugs his shoulders, like he’s trying to shrug off the discomfort. “I haven’t seen  _ Interstellar _ yet.” 

Jack’s face looks pinched, and then he shakes his head. “Of fucking course you haven’t. You haven’t seen so many good movies, I can’t believe…”

Jack continues muttering as Connor follows him to the bed, where Jack already has all the privacy charms up. Connor’s not really sure what the significance is, but he’s not going to think about it. 

Jack’s still rambling, bitching, really, about something entirely different now - something to do with the shitty wifi in the dorm rooms lately. The movie is loading and Connor’s gently curling into Jack’s side to avoid screen glare. 

“...And why the hell do the ceilings snow. We have enough snow outside!” Jack states, like it’s personally offensive. 

“Start the movie, Jack.” 

He does. 

 

Jack wakes with his nostrils filled with fluffy, messy blond hair. He shakes his head, disoriented, only to realize that he’s spooning Connor. He doesn’t even have time to be happy that he’s the big spoon before Connor’s stirring awake too. Connor makes a happy little humming sound before tensing, and Jack’s glad that he’s not the only one who finds this weird. 

“Morning,” Jack says, voice rough. He becomes acutely aware of the fact that he has terrible morning breath, but pushes that aside so he can wiggle free and get out of bed. 

“Hey,” Connor replies softly. He turns around and he’s got a huge cowlick on his left temple. His eyes close again as he buries himself under Jack’s blankets, and Jack desperately needs to find something to wear other than the sweatpants he had put on before they had started  _ Interstellar  _ last night. He rummages in the drawers under his bed for dark jeans and a soft hoodie. He needs the armour, needs to look good for the day ahead of him. He tugs his favourite Red Sox hat over his curls and blows out a breath. 

“Today’s the day,” Jack says, flat only because an inkling of nervousness finds its way into his head. Connor’s eyes fly open, though they’re still fuzzy, like he’s not quite aware. Jack swallows around the lump in his throat. “Breakfast?” 

Connor’s still rubbing his eyes, but he sounds alert when he replies, “Yeah. And I’m starving, so.” 

Jack nods, nixes the spells, and grabs the spellbook. Before he moves again,, he takes one look at Connor’s ridiculous mop of hair, doesn’t let himself question it, and takes his hat off, securing it on Connor’s head. 

Connor’s eyes go wide. “I can’t wear this!” 

“Trust me, dude, you need it.” He ignores the muttering about Blue Jays and team loyalty as he grabs a Bruins snapback for himself instead, and then they’re off. 

Jack doesn’t bring up the… sleeping situation as they walk the shortcut through a trick mirror to breakfast, and neither does Connor. They talk about what they remember of the movie, and Jack’s a little disappointed that he hadn’t been able to get through the whole thing. 

They’re quick getting through their omelettes. Jack gets a slice of pie too, and Connor has the balls to steal some of it. Connor is just finishing his orange juice when his phone buzzes. It’s Marner. 

“He’s ready whenever we are,” Connor says. Jack can practically see the worry buzzing under Connor’s skin. 

“Tell him we’ll meet him by Hunter’s Hedges in five. And Connor.” Jack looks very intently at Connor’s wider-than-normal eyes. It’s not usually his place, this reassurance thing, and he’d much rather say some sort of smart snarky response, but he also knows it’s not what Connor needs right now. He tucks that thought away, never to be investigated again. Instead, he says, “this is going to work. I’ve done my research. I’ve checked and double checked. Okay?”

Connor takes a big breath, texts Marner back. “Okay.” 

Marner, somehow, looks perfectly normal when they meet up with him outside of the school. Jack thinks the nervousness may rear its head as they walk to the forest, but that only helps him keep his cool. They exchange pleasantries, then they’re on their way. It’s tense and quiet for a few minutes, but then Marner breaks the silence. 

“Can you go over the spell one more time?” he asks, and there it is. The doubt. It irks Jack, probably more than it should, because they’ve been over this time and again. So much so that he can’t help but huff. 

“I’m going to sit on the filthy woody ground with Connor because the it gives me the peace and quiet I need to work. He and I are both going to focus really hard on Strome, and I’m going to say a bunch of words that we all read and re-read and read for a thirty-fifth time last night. The spell will beeline for Strome and, Orr willing, it makes its way through Strome’s thick skull and works. Then you two can go live your happily ever after together…in a few days, at least,” he replies, thankful that he doesn’t sound too exasperated by the end of it. 

“It’ll be fine, Marns,” Connor reassures, though Jack thinks it’s for himself as much as his friend. 

Marner doesn’t reply, and it gives Jack the chance to determine where the best spot will be. Even though he can’t see them, he knows thestrals are off to the right a little ways, so he veers left; thestrals rustle leaves like nothing else Jack knows of and he is not here for creatures of the underworld fucking up his mojo. There’s a great clearing close by that gets a lot of traffic in the spring, but the snow is thick up ahead and nearly non-existent here, so Jack plants himself and turns around. 

Marner and Connor look a little startled at Jack’s abrupt decision, but they stop too. Marner lays out the quilt on some nearly-bare grass and looks back to Jack, chewing his lip. Jack’s decision is instinctual more than logical when he says flatly, “Okay, dude, you need to go.” 

“What?” Marner squawks. “What do you mean? I need to be here.”

So this is how it’s gonna go. Jack’s not surprised, but he is, admittedly, irritated. “You’re fidgeting, it’s distracting as hell and all of your stupid-ass thoughts are going to make this thing go haywire. You don’t want to kill him, do you?” 

Marner flounders for a second, before looking to Connor for backup and fortunately getting none. Thank Gretzky Connor knows what’s good for him. Marner pouts. “Why does Davo get to stay?” 

“Because he’s cool,” Jack replies, matter-of-factly. 

Marner’s eyebrow goes up and he darts a look at Connor. It’s only then that Jack realizes how it sounded, and it’s like all the air has gone out of his chest. Connor is bright red, and when Marner turns back to Jack, Jack’s pretty sure his own face is going blotchy too. 

“He’s calm, oh my god. He’s not like-” Jack flounders. 

Marner’s other eyebrow follows the first when Jack trails off awkwardly. “Don’t, like, hurt yourself, bud.” 

Jack’s face is definitely hot now, but he does his best to push it down and focus on being annoyed with Marner. “Look, just… I don’t know, go mope in your own dorm or something. McDavid can come and get you when we’re done.” 

Marner looks more agreeable now and his voice doesn’t waver when he says, “The minute you’re done.” 

Connor nods, solemn. “I promise.” 

With Marner gone, the tension drops and Jack feels his irritation and annoyance settle. He’s happy to see Connor hasn’t absorbed any of the tension either, sitting there quietly, focused on staying calm. Jack appreciates it. Kicking Marner out had been a strategy to keep himself settled, to increase how successful the spell is going to be. At the end of the day, regardless of how long they’ve been looking at the damn thing, and looking for the damn thing, there’s at least one major relationship in the balance. No matter how strong Jack is, it’s still fucking scary. 

Jack has never done a spell at this level. He’s never done something that requires this much focus. But it makes the magic come easily, from his core. His movements are fluid, easy, as practiced as if he’d run the play a hundred times. He’s not thinking about the amount of magic he’s using, the side-effects that Connor had read up on and drilled into him. He’s not thinking about anything other than the magic, the spell, what he wants to bend his magic to do. 

Connor’s watching him carefully when he finally opens his eyes and searches his face for more than a few beats. He smiles once he’s determined there’s nothing wrong, that Jack’s emotions are stable. “That was perfect.” 

“I don’t do anything less,” Jack replies haughtily, though it takes him a minute given the approval and reverence that are ringing in Connor’s voice. “Thanks for not messing me up.” 

Connor smirks. Jack can still see the tension in his shoulders, his hands. “Don’t think I could have if I had tried.” 

They don’t linger in the woods, not really. They do take their time going back and Jack can’t help but feel like Connor’s still watching him, still monitoring his every step and expression. It’s Connor’s idea that they stop and watch a hippogriff, flying around and around a clearing. It dives and snatches a ferret with pinpoint accuracy and Jack feels a smile quirk up the corner of his mouth. 

“We should tell Lindy,” Connor says, close to Jack’s ear. It shouldn’t startle Jack as much as it does but Connor’s so close it almost makes him shiver. Instead, he pulls out his phone and catches the hippogriff in mid flight. 

“You should frame that.”

Jack doesn’t smile, but it’s a near thing. Instead he starts off towards the school. “That work deserves hot chocolate.” 

Connor catches up to him and keeps pace easily. “With marshmallows.” 

 

Everything goes to shit the minute Jack and Connor show up at Dylan’s practice. It almost happens in slow motion, the change from watching Dylan carry the puck up the ice to being on the ice. Dylan’s distraught and he has no idea why. Neither does Connor and Jack’s not saying a damn thing as they get Dylan back to the dorms, Mitch on Dylan’s other side. Connor feels helpless, feels like he’s looking to Jack for answers even though Jack doesn’t look like he knows what to do. He looks nervous, confused, all in the way his eyes stay dark, his jaw won’t stop clenching. 

Connor gets Dylan into bed, tries to say some encouraging words, but it’s all a blur. He thinks maybe Mitch and Jack take some shots at each other, but he’s not sure. Then Jack is pushing his way in with his wand out, and Connor steps aside, instinctual. 

“Strome, look at me,” Jack says. His voice is steady, but Connor has the urge to reach out, to tell Jack to stay calm. 

“What are you doing?” Dylan asks, turning to face Jack as Jack’s wand starts to glow a faint purple, the closer it gets to Dylan’s head.

Jack grabs Dylan’s chin and turns Dylan’s head back to the way it was, now holding the purple light just above Dylan’s left ear. “Basic diagnostics of your temporal lobes and then your mid and hindbrain, if you’d just stay still,” he says sharply.

“Hey,” Mitch protests, but Jack shushes him. Mitch looks to Connor, possibly for some backup, but Connor shrugs. He’s no more qualified to intervene than Mitch is. 

Jack flits around Dylan’s head for a few more minutes and then gets Dylan to follow the light from his wand. “Let me just-” Jack starts, then huffs. “Keep him calm. I need my textbook.” 

Connor gives Dylan a small smile, finds a Kleenex box and hands it to him just as Jack returns. 

“Jack, you have to tell us what’s going on,” Connor says softly. He’s getting a little worried; Jack’s been quiet for too long.

“Good news is, these feelings, emotions, whatever, should only last short term,” Jack says slowly, still reading a page from his book. 

“I’d fucking hope so,” Mitch snaps. Connor shoots him a look, then re-attends to Jack. 

“Bad news is,” Jack continues, “the spell seems to have re-activated the wrong portion of the limbic system. It focused solely on the amygdala.” He huffs a laugh. “At least we didn’t affect the hypothalamus.”

“Jack,” Connor says, patiently. 

Jack looks up and blinks, eyes clearing. “Oh, uh, we brought the feelings back from when he cast the memory spell, but none of the memories.”

“ _ Memories of what _ ?” Dylan interjects for the hundredth time, anxious for answers no one wants to give him. Connor can’t find the words, but thankfully he doesn’t have to because Jack is the one to answer. 

“You did a dumb thing, Strome, and we’re trying to fix it. But right now,” Jack says as he pulls a flask from his pocket. “Drink this. It’ll help you sleep.” 

“Fuck you, I don’t want to  _ sleep _ , what the fuck is going on? Memories of  _ what _ ?”

“Dyls,” Connor interrupts. He can’t imagine just how terrible Dylan feels right now, but he knows sleep is the best option right now. “Jack’s trying to help.”

Dylan sniffles again and his face is all sorts of red. Still, he yanks the flask from Jack and chugs the whole thing. Almost instantly his eyes begin to droop and his shoulders sag, and Connor reaches forward to lie him down properly. A minute later he’s snoring, Connor’s heart unclenching slowly but surely. 

Mitch leaves before they do, on the verge of tears. Watching him walk away is more devastating than Connor had anticipated. It hurts. Connor had been sure the spell would work. Jack had been sure. It had felt like the perfect solution to totally fix Dylan, and Dylan and Mitch’s relationship. 

“It didn’t work.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “There was always a chance.” 

“We hurt him.”

“Temporarily.” 

Connor can feel his breath speed up. His heart is starting to pound. He knows the signs. He knows what’s happening. He can feel the way his brain is telling him to run, but his feet are frozen to the floor. 

“Connor!” 

He jumps. “Um. Yeah sure.”

“Dude. What the fuck?”

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

“Don’t- Like what - You’re not okay.”

“Of course I am.” He just… needs to get out of here. Find an excuse, tell Jack he needs to leave. But he can’t make himself do anything. 

“Strome’s going to be fine,” Jack says carefully. “Like, a day, two at most. And he won’t remember it. He won’t even remember the situation or the emotions. He’s going to go back to normal.”

“But he’s not normal!” Connor explodes. He can hear the hysteria in his voice now. “He hasn’t been normal! He hasn’t been normal for a long time. He cursed himself!” 

“Whoa,” Jack says, even backs up a step, but his voice stays soft. “It’s okay. We will figure this out.” 

“How is it  _ possibly _ going to be okay. Nothing we do helps.”

“I fucking know. I’m right there with you, remember? I’m doing the research too.” 

“You don’t-” Connor makes an angry noise. He can’t… He just can’t. Fortunately, that’s the moment his feet choose to cooperate. Unfortunately, Jack’s reflexes are fast. He catches Connor’s wrist, holds it fast in fingers Connor’s admired on other occasions. Now they feel like shackles. 

“Connor.” 

It’s sharp and surprising enough to jolt Connor’s attention.

“Connor, look at me.” 

Jack’s eyes are so blue. That’s what Connor realizes. His eyes are blue and his shoulders are rising and falling in a pattern Connor can follow. It’s a little hypnotizing. 

“There you go.”

The words are clear, no longer fuzzy. Connor blinks. Even the world is clearer now, his breath slowing down, matching the steady rise and fall of Jack’s broad shoulders. 

“Better?” 

Connor’s breath shakes, but it’s also a full breath, not short and sharp. “Dylan’s still-”

“I mean yeah. But we’ve got this. You’re okay. You’re safe. We’re doing research, we have ideas, we haven’t killed him. He’s fucking sleeping. He is okay.” Jack squeezes his wrist, grounds Connor in the swirl of emotion. 

Connor can breathe. He can think, just enough to know that he shouldn’t be doing any more thinking today. He needs to relax. He needs a break.

“Do you…” Connor shakes his head, tries again. “Can we watch a movie?” 

Jack startles, like he wasn’t expecting that at all, but regains his neutral expression quickly and nods. His hands are still cool around Connor’s wrists, and Connor doesn’t mind. Connor’s dorm is so thankfully empty and Connor’s more grateful for that than he wants to admit. 

“What do you wanna-” Connor starts when he settles onto the bed, but Jack shushes him and pulls out his wand. Connor is about to ask what he’s doing when Jack turns so his back is to Connor, wand focused on Connor’s side of the room. 

“ _ Cave Inimicum, Muffliato, Protego Totalum,”  _ Jack says, measured, and Connor feels things settle with the rhythmic syllables. Warmth spreads through him faster than he thought possible, and he can’t help but lean into Jack a little bit. 

“There,” Jack says. "It’s just us.”

Which helps even more, if Connor’s honest. His hands aren’t shaking nearly as brutally when he climbs on the bed and pulls his laptop towards him, scrolls through the movies. He chooses  _ Aladdin _ , Jack approves, and they completely settle in together. 

It’s half way through the movie when Connor notices it, fine lines on Jack’s forearm where it’s bare between them. Connor, unselfconscious post anxiety attack and fuzzy, finds himself fascinated by the dark brown lines. A trophy, Connor thinks. 

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Connor says conversationally, but he’s surprised when Jack stiffens. 

“I don’t,” Jack replies, short.

“But-”

“It’s not.” Jack interrupts and even through the fuzziness in his brain, the half-asleep feeling in his body - the adrenaline crash - he can hear the sharpness of Jack’s voice. 

“I didn’t mean-”

It almost feels like Jack forces himself to relax. “I know.” And that’s too tender for Connor’s entire being. He curls reflexively into Jack’s side because he’s tired and Jack’s warm and it’s been an emotional day. 

He barely gets through ‘A Friend Like Me’ before the world fades around him. 

 

“Okay,  _ ughh,” _ Jack wretches, turning his face into his sleeve to cover his nose. “We have got to do something about this smell.”

Dr. Wickenheiser laughs, puts a lid on the cauldron. “It’s not ours to alter, Jack, remember? This potion is over four hundred years old; sedation while healing battle wounds was its purpose, not smelling like roses.” 

Jack barely holds back a gag nonetheless. He appreciates learning the theory behind mood and physiological-altering potions, but he’s already showered twice today. 

“At least I made it right,” he concedes, sparing a quick glance at his attempt at a merriment potion that had somehow become so acidic that it had eaten right through the cauldron. 

“This one is perfect,” Dr. Wickenheiser confirms. She looks at her watch. “You mentioned you have practice at 5. I don’t think we can fit in another potion, but here,” she says, scooping up a small amount of Jack’s successful potion into a vial, “I want you to find a time to try this out, see how it makes you feel.”

Jack’s… well, he’s a little stunned. “Uh, alright.” He takes the vial, tucks it safely in his backpack. 

“If you’re going to really appreciate your work, sometimes you have to see the other side of things,” she explains. “And I promise it’s safe. Just take it an hour before bed, on a night when you can afford to sleep in the next day. Trust me, you may just have the best sleep of your life.”

It’s kind of cool, really, for Jack to get his hands on this, but his brain gets stuck on  _ the other side of things. _ He can barely push the thought away during practice, and has no hope but to focus on it afterwards. 

Either way, he’s more excited than ever to have taken this on.  

  
  


Connor doesn’t get spare time. There’s always homework to do, or something to study, or plays to look over. He’s always functioned best when every hour of his time is scheduled and accounted for. So when he does have downtime, he’s usually at a loss. 

He gets some spare time on a rainy Saturday afternoon, a light homework week and fresh from practice. Except unlike other times where Connor has been at a loss, he has something to do.

He Googles “not tattoo marks”. 

There are sites upon sites that pop up, ideas and theories about soulmarks and henna and temporary tattoos but not a single one of the results feels right. It’s not a tattoo, and Connor can’t explain why he really doesn’t think it’s a soulmark. Maybe it was the way Jack reacted, defensive and irritated, which sure are default expressions for Jack, but the reactions had been almost violent. He likes to think that he and Jack are passed the point where soulmarks would be something they couldn’t talk about. 

He taps his fingers on the keyboard, tries to figure out how to narrow his search. He huffs out a breath. There’s nothing. He has nothing else to go on. 

He clicks on the first paper. 

It’s a classic overview of soulmarks, how they work, what it means, how to find your soulmate if you’re one of the lucky few to be born with a soulmark. It makes Connor roll his eyes a little. No one in his family has ever had a soulmark and he certainly doesn’t feel like he’s missed out on “the best kind of relationship”. Sure, compatibility is nice, and knowing you’re particularly compatible with a person could be a benefit, but Connor’s a bigger fan of work. Relationships, his parents have taught him, take work, and Connor’s never shied away from that. 

The second paper isn’t much different. 

He’s an hour into his research when he finally comes across something that seems useful. It’s about soulmarks, but the concluding statement posits that maybe soulmarks aren’t the only marks out there. 

Connor feels his heartrate increase. 

_ Despite this section being about our final and concluding thoughts, the researchers feel it is necessary to discuss the outliers in this study. While the majority of people surveyed self-identified as those with soulmarks, the researchers discovered a sliver of the selected population who had marks that had faded over time. Participants with fading marks spoke about significant people in their lives, but a myriad of marks that fade in and out as people do. Research suggests there is another type of mark to be researched at a later time. _

Connor’s heart is hammering. 

He has no idea if any of Jack’s marks have faded. The trophy looked pretty solid, pretty permanent, but Jack had denied a tattoo, and he feels like the world would have talked about a soulmark if that’s what the trophy represented. Connor also assumes there would be more people throwing themselves at Jack’s feet if they knew he could be looking for a soulmate. 

Connor’s not jealous. 

“What’s this?” Connor grunts when Dylan draps himself over Connor’s shoulders. “Research? I thought you were done your transfiguration paper.” 

“I am,” Connor replies and just barely resists the urge to slam his computer shut. “Are you?”

“You’re changing the subject.” Which means no. Connor rolls his eyes. “Soulmarks? Something you need to tell me?” 

“I don’t have a soulmark,” is Connor’s prompt response. 

“Could you imagine.”

“No,” Connor says immediately, because all of the research he’s now done. Sometimes post-game is bad enough with people crowding around and he’s had his fair share of people crowding around and not because of what they know about him. People like who they think he is. 

“Any particular reason you’re looking up soulmates?” 

Connor goes stiff. It’s the wrong reaction, but not one he has particular control over. 

Dylan pokes him. “Out with it.” 

“I know someone with marks,” Connor replies reluctantly. “And they… they won’t talk about it.” 

“Who?” Dylan asks immediately, ready for gossip. “Anyone I know?” 

This time though, Connor’s prepared, and he shrugs nonchalantly, dislodging Dylan enough that he lets go completely and drops into the seat next to Connor. “We’re not talking about it.” 

“Davo,” Dylan whines. 

“No.” Connor is determined to stay firm on it too, because he hates talking about things when he doesn’t know the answers only a fraction more than he hates gossip in general. This, he’s pretty sure, would count as both, the fact that it would be about Jack notwithstanding. 

Dylan sighs, and it’s heavy and put upon. “Am I about to get a whole theory on soulmarks?” 

Dylan Strome, in all of his absolutely dumbassery, is a salt of the earth human being. Connor will tell that to anyone. 

“It’s not the soulmarks I’m interested in it’s this little piece here about how there may be some other type of mark that fades over time. What does that even mean?”

“Gretzky wept. You owe me,” Dylan says, but he’s settling in. Salt of the earth human. Connor really does love him. “What do you mean fades over time?” 

“Look here, see how they’re talking about some participants who had marks that fade? They didn’t even give them a name. What would you call them? Why would they even exist? Maybe it’s about the whole ‘footsteps on your heart’ thing they talk about sometimes?”

“You’ve been watching romcoms with Eichel again.” 

“We watched Aladdin last night, idiot, and that’s so far from the point…”

  
  


Jack lives a life of perpetual frustration that is his own doing. 

He has a low tolerance for bullshit, and a stubbornness that is, as far as Jack knows, unrivaled. The two often leave him angry, frustrated, and with a bull’s mentality to just push through. He’s always figures that’s what the Toque meant when he was sorted into North: “ _ the Bear leads by example, to others but also to himself. Embrace your strengths, set a plan, and you will be the first to conquer the storm _ .” 

The hat’s not wrong, is the thing. Jack’s always been good at pushing himself exactly where he wants to go. 

Which is why, when he’s alternating between neck-deep piles of memory textbooks and anxiety remedies, he embraces it. Wickenheiser is hands on, always there in the lab with him, and Jack relishes the ability to bounce ideas off of her then and there. It’s a unique experience, to have someone that knowledgeable who is willing to treat him like an equal and not a student. She always has a new theory, a new idea, a new perspective and it’s shoved Jack out of many spirals over the course of his independent study. 

Then Marner gets a goddamn concussion from an absolutely legal hit that Jack laid during a game. The concussion, apparently, means Marner loses his fucking mind. 

“That’s dumb, what do you mean no spell to break?” 

It’s weirdly gratifying to feel Connor argue with him, because the idea of there not being something they can do, that they put all of this work into the idiot that goes by Dylan Strome, Jack might actually flip a real table. 

Marner holds up his hands and it is zero percent placating. If anything, it makes Jack’s blood boil hotter. “We’ve been at it for so long, and we’ve got nothing.”

Jack is going to lose it. “We don’t have nothing, you cretin, how dare you. We’re going to break this fucking spell so you stop moping around.” 

“I’m not-” 

Jack can’t help the way his fist clenches at the fucking  _ idea _ of Mitchell Marner not moping over this whole thing. Jack’s been here the whole time. He’s seen Connor through anxiety attacks over this shit. He is absolutely not above calling Marner out on this whole dumpster load of bullshit. 

“My point is, what if the only thing to do is go forward?” 

Jack is literally stunned silent. He cannot be hearing what he thinks he’s hearing. 

“Look,” and Marner’s focusing on Connor now. Jack has to give him props for that. Jack’s spent enough time with Connor to know any emotional appeal is more likely to sway Connor than Jack. “I can’t keep doing this, Davo. I can’t keep thinking we’re getting closer and closer and sit on that hope.”

Jack is going to throw up. “My  _ god _ you are a sap, Marner.” 

He frowns when Marner ignores him, looks to Connor. Connor’s not handling this well. He looks shocked, stricken, hurt. Fuck. 

“You’re perfect for each other.” There’s so much pain there, and hurt, and want. “I just… Mitch, you were - you are - so good to him. I…” 

And it’s fucking  _ working _ . Why is murder illegal? Or kidnapping? Or locking someone in a fucking closet because they are not going to give up. Jack’s fingers twitch. He wants to… shake Connor or wrap his hands around Marner’s throat for doing this and putting them in this situation. “You want to  _ give up _ ?” 

Jack does not have a fucking  _ fatemark _ just for them to turn around and  _ give up _ . 

“No!” Connor says immediately. “Of course not, what the fuck.”

“It sounds like it,” Jack argues. 

“It does not. Mitch is asking-” He shuts up when Marner puts his hands up again. God, is this what Jack’s like with Noah? They need to re-establish some boundaries. This is bullshit. 

“I’m asking… Can we call it taking a break?” 

“Like Ross and Rachel did?” 

“I don’t know. I just know right now it doesn’t feel like there’s a way to go back, and rehashing all of the details isn’t getting us anywhere.” He’s focused on Connor again and Jack, rather irrationally, wants to step in front of Connor, like it’ll protect him or some other dumb idea. 

“We need to stop trying to break it and start thinking about… tests and exams and the end of the year and…” Marner blows out a heavy breath. “There are more important things.” 

Jack is legitimately going to murder someone if this makes Connor cry. He certainly looks close when he says, “Than your heart?” 

Marner’s smile wobbles and it gives Jack some serious resolve. 

“My heart will heal, Davo,” Marner says. “I think maybe it’s time to give it the space to do it.” 

And Jack… This can’t be real. It has to be the concussion, or stress, or anxiety like Connor making Marner want to avoid a fucking solution to this dumbass problem. Jack’s put work in it, blood, sweat, tears, emotions,  _ something _ with Connor fucking McDavid. He’s not giving up because Marner doesn’t have the stomach for it. 

“I’m not giving up.” 

“Okay,” Marner says easily and pushes himself up. He’s walking away, for real and Jack does not fucking get it. “But I’m out.” And Jack will admit there’s a lot of determination in his gaze when it finally meets Jack’s. “Leave me out of it.” 

Neither he nor Connor says a damn thing while Marner walks out. Jack is vibrating with it, frustration and anger and betrayal. He’s put  _ work _ into this. He’s made fucking friends over this shit, and someone, somewhere out there, that believes in people having a reason for coming in and out of Jack’s life believes that there’s something here. 

“I’m not stopping.” 

Connor is silent and it makes Jack itch. It’s a startling moment to realize the itch is because the decision is in Connor’s hands. Marner’s not wrong: there are so many other things for them to focus on. He’s got a goddamn thesis to write and it has, admittedly, been difficult to balance the time he needs to dedicate to that, with the time he’s been putting into Strome. But more than that, there’s no reason for Jack to continue on his own. He has no emotional investment in Strome, beyond the fact that Connor’s tenacity has kept Jack in the whole thing from the beginning. Connor wanted Strome to have his memories. Connor wanted to keep looking, to keep trying. Connor was his anchor when it all went down. 

“Connor-”

When Connor looks up, it’s resignation on his face; the kind of resignation that’s as much about mourning as it is about acceptance. “Mitch asked us to stop. We have to respect that.” 

“We very fucking do not-”

“Jack.”

There’s the audible clicking of his teeth as Jack shuts up. There’s a lot in Connor’s tone - and Jack is very particularly not investigating how he knows that - and none of it bodes well for Jack’s resolve.  

“Mitch asked us to step away.”

“He’s emotionally compromised! He can’t be trusted!”

There’s a moment, a beat, and instead of making Jack feel like he has ground to gain, he feels like it puts him more solidly in the losses. 

“If we help Dylan,” Connor starts, and Jack hates the measured tone he’s employed. “What happens? He gets his memories back, which is amazing, and we’ll be amazing for figuring it out, but…”

“But,” Jack eventually prods.

“But it still hurts Mitch. Mitch still has to deal with it, you know? He still has all of the memories, including the memory of Dylan choosing to forget him.”

Jack’s fucked. He knows it. 

“I’m not saying we stop trying forever,” Connor goes on, because he’s smart enough or aware enough to read Jack’s face, his irritation and his anger. “It’s...it’s okay to fail, I think. Or to just, not succeed right now. Doesn’t mean we have to put it aside forever. Doesn’t mean we won’t figure it out in the future.”

Jack knows there’s nothing else he can say; there’s nothing he can do. 

“Look. Let’s just… come back to it okay? I can’t-” And Jack almost startles because it would mean something significant for Connor to admit that he can’t deal with any of this right now, that he needs to let it percolate. “We have our Potions unit test on Friday and I’m struggling with Skele-Gro.”

Oh, this Jack can deal with. He scoffs lightly, brings his chair just a little closer to Connor to point to something in the Potions textbook. “There’s not that much to remember once you connect the dots. See, boil then freeze the licorice, shake then stir the beetles. It’s all back and forth.” 

It’s easy after that, to shift gears into studying. The Strome Situation stays at the back of his mind, but he is able to ignore it as he focuses on Connor’s questions, feels his confidence grow for the upcoming exam as he rattles off facts and concepts that he knows like the back of his hand. 

 

Connor’s just getting out of his second post-game shower, thinking about where he should study tonight, when his phone starts buzzing with a string of texts. Dylan sometimes texts like this, so Connor gives himself some time to dry off and put on some comfy clothes before checking his phone. 

There are fifteen missed messages from Jack. Sixteen, now. They’re all questions about either Care of Magical Creatures or Transfiguration. It’s nice to know that there’s no emergency, at least. 

The seventeenth message comes in:  _ this would be a lot easier if you just came to the library, you know. _

And that’s - well. They don’t have to study together. They don’t even have to talk anymore, now that Mitch has called it quits on the Dylan thing. But Connor’s more than a little grateful that Jack doesn’t expect their library dates - no, study sessions - to stop. 

_ Sorry! Just got out of the shower. I’ll be there in fifteen with snacks :) _

Jack sends a thumbs up, then,  _ if you don’t bring salt and vinegar chips, don’t bother coming at all.  _

Connor tucks his phone in his pocket with a small smile, grabs his backpack, and heads to the kitchens. 

  
  


Mitch calls Connor and he’s crying. All he does is choke out Connor’s name and Connor is bolting upright from his bed, throwing on shoes and hightailing it to Mitch’s dorm. 

“I told him,” Mitch sobs, the minute he opens the door for Connor. 

“Shit,” Connor says. No one is in the dorm but he doesn’t take any chances, he puts up the protective spells and then wrestles Mitch into a very tight cuddle on Mitch’s bed.

“He wants to give it a chance. A second chance, I guess,” Mitch says when he’s obviously cried himself out. 

Connor’s chest goes tight. “Are you going to give it to him?” 

Mitch sniffs. It’s more than a few beats before he says, “For at least a date, yeah.” He tilts his head to look up at Connor. “He’s never going to remember. We’re not going to be able to make him.” 

There’s relief for Connor in all of this, a way to walk towards a normal Connor can get behind. There’s relief too, that Mitch is standing by his decisions, standing up for himself. He hugs Mitch a little tighter. “I know.” 

“So. We’ll start with a date. See where it goes.” 

Connor pulls back, not far but enough to look at Mitch in his eyes. “Do I need to remind you not to push yourself too hard?” 

It gets a smile out of Mitch. “I mean, always,” he replies with a shrug.

They don’t say much after that, and Connor quietly excuses himself after Mitch falls asleep. He doesn’t really know where to go, has too much adrenaline pumping through him from the panic and the potential, but he’s not all that surprised when he ends up at the kitchens. Hanifin’s there too, and Connor nods at him as he grabs himself a white hot chocolate. 

“Late night planned?” Hanifin asks conversationally. 

Connor laughs. “Actually, no.” It’s only hitting him now that he doesn’t have to open up another Magipsychology textbook in his life, not if he really doesn’t want to. 

“Wow, Davo’s taking a night off, alert the media,” Hanifin replies, and it startles a chuckle out of Connor. 

“At this rate, it might make the front page,” Connor adds. 

They’re quiet until an elf hands Hanifin a paper bag. “Your pie, Mr. Noah!” The elf squeaks happily. 

“Late night planned?” Connor parrots. 

“It’s for Eichs,” Hanifin admits. “He’s so close to finishing his independent study, so I thought I’d bring him some motivational dessert. And if he doesn’t want it, hey, free pie for me.”

Connor almost startles. He knows about the project, in the absent way that he knows Jack carries more textbooks than he should. And he knows Jack’s incredibly talented, has the knowledge and the connection with Chu and Wickenheiser to have the supervision. He’s never really thought about it though: an entirely different project that isn’t saving Dylan from himself. 

“He’s close?” 

Hanifin cocks his head. “I mean, yeah. You didn’t know? I figured he’d tell you first.” 

“Why would he tell me first?” 

It’s not quite pity that slides across Hanifin’s face, but Connor doesn’t get the sense it’s a positive emotion either. “Gretzky bless, you’re both so alike it’s creepy.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“It means,” and there’s definitely a hint of exasperation in Hanifin’s voice now. “He’d probably rather you deliver this pie than me.” 

“He’d let me say hi?” Because Connor knows exactly what Jack’s like when he’s busy and committed to his work. He’s been there, done that, and it isn’t really the prettiest thing. 

“Lindsay wept,” Hanifin mutters. “Come on. You can cheer him on instead of me for a change. He pitched a textbook at me half an hour ago and that’s how I knew it was pie time.” 

Connor feels his stomach flip. “He threw a textbook?”

“He does that,” Hanifin replies, calm as can be.

“I’ve never seen him throw a textbook.” 

Hanifin stops dead in the hallway and looks skyward. “Dude. Just trust that he’d rather see your face than mine, okay?” 

That spurs more questions than it answers but Connor follows Hanifin regardless. He has nothing better to do with his time and if he’s honest, everything with Mitch has left him shaken. Some of Jack’s brand of sarcastic simplicity actually sounds perfect. 

Connor doesn’t have to look for Jack when they step into the dorm. “Fuck off, Hanny!”

Hanifin shoves the pie into Connor’s hands. “McDavid brought you pie, leave me out of this.”

There’s a moment Connor recognizes, where it takes a second for Jack to register exactly what’s going on. Then his eyes narrow. “Pie.”

“Apple,” Connor offers as he takes one step closer. Jack doesn’t react really, prompting Connor to keep walking until he can place the pie within arms’ reach of Jack.

“Why did you bring me pie,” Jack asks, and it’s kind of a statement, kind of an accusation. Not really a question. 

Connor answers anyway. “I wanted to see you. If you want me to leave, I can.” 

Jack’s face does something weird, like he’d be offended if Connor left. The look stays as he glances down at his textbook, maybe reading a sentence or something. “You can stay.”

He doesn’t say or do anything else, but he doesn’t need to. Connor’s probably too happy about this, but he doesn’t care. He grabs his phone and just plays around, stealing glances at Jack every so often. They talk a bit about school stuff, but it’s not intense like some of their study sessions. Jack’s stance becomes less aggressively hunched, he sighs less and less. 

It’s nice. Connor’s okay to admit that now. And when he smiles at Jack, when Jack catches him looking, Jack smiles back. So maybe he finds it nice too. 

 

The thing is, the brain doesn’t fade, and it definitely doesn’t disappear. 

To be fair, neither does Strome, or Marner. Neither does Connor.  

Jack doesn’t really think much of it, if he’s honest. Not actively, anyway. It has a habit of hitting him at the worst times, like when it’s 3am and he knows he should be sleeping but his brain is running and running and running. 

He can’t fathom why the mark is staying around. 

_ Because it was never about Strome _ . The voice in is head sounds like Noah, which is irritating in its own right. 

Not to mention the absurdity of the statement. If the brain isn’t about Strome, who else is it about? There’s no reason it would be Marner. Marner’s the one that keeps throwing emotional wrenches into the whole thing and fucking up all of Jack’s hard work. 

_ Which makes it about Connor _ .

Which is also bullshit. Why the hell would a fatemark show up, implying that it exists because of some sort of mental challenge, about Connor fucking McDavid? They’ve been rivals for as long as Jack can remember, and Jack had been extremely reluctant to even help Marner and Connor out. He’s just simultaneously not in the habit of letting others commit crimes and literally fuck up the entire existence of another human. And he’s passionate about magipsychology. That’s all. 

_ Is it? _

“Fuck you, Hanny in my head,” he murmurs, even as he stares up at the ceiling. He has class in literally five hours. He’s going to be an actual zombie.

_ What’s so bad about a fatemark that corresponds to Connor? _

Because the idea of Connor being in his life makes him absently want to puke. It’s honestly bad enough that he’s spent the majority of his time at L’Ecole battling against the comparison between them, but the idea that it happened for a reason, that it’s happening for a reason, irritates him so much. 

_ Hating him is also your brand _ .

Jack recoils at the idea, which is a shock in and of itself. He’s not in the habit of self-reflection, but his reaction certainly tells him it’s never been about hating Connor. Or even resenting him, if Jack’s completely honest with himself. He hadn’t known Connor prior to the Strome Situation. He’d known of him, that’s well established, but he’d had no idea about the human underneath the reputation. It feels unfair to hold himself accountable to hating the idea of a person and not the person themselves. 

_ How mature of you _ . 

Yeah, Noah-in-his-head is starting to really piss him off. He rolls over, huffs into his pillow. 

_ He did help you narrow down your independent project. _

He chose Jack’s independent project. He was the catalyst, the panic attack that Jack can relate to and the startling realization that Connor is not the perfect, squeaky-clean person he projects into the world. 

_ Yeah, and it made you feel good to help him. _

“I’m going to kill you,” he groans into his pillow. The voice isn’t wrong. It did and it does make Jack feel good to think he’s helping Connor. The Connor he knows is awkward and too-quiet, and literally not at all full of himself. He makes awkward jokes and cares too much about his school work and his grades and the expectations everyone else has for him. It’s irritating, for sure, but not in the same way as Jack can imagine it would be to have two huge egos fighting for space. 

_ How self aware of you to admit you have a huge ego. _

Yeah well. Jack’s never been shy. 

_ Which brings us back to the point: the brain is about Connor. And it isn’t fading _ .

Jack shivers, despite being under layers of blankets. He’s not into admitting how nice it is that Connor likely isn’t about to ghost out of his life, despite the fact that they’ve hit pause on the Strome Situation - he refuses to call it cancelling just because Marner’s chickened out. The brain has not faded at all. There’s no discolouration that signifies that Connor or Strome or Marner is supposed to fade out of his life now. 

_ Not Strome, you idiot. Not Marner either. _

“Just shut up.” 

_ What are you going to do about it? _

Nothing. 

Jack is not going to do a goddamn thing about the brain existing. For one thing, his little voice can fuck right off about Connor in general. Jack is very, very, very reluctantly willing to admit that he is maybe living in denial about how happy it makes him to spend time with Connor, and the warm fuzzy feeling that lingers when Connor falls asleep watching movies, but he is definitely not thinking about what that could mean. There’s still so much on his plate, still so many things he has to do and accomplish before he can even consider what the hell his neurotransmitters are doing when Connor’s all soft and cuddly next to him. 

_ That sounds dumb _ .

No, it sounds like self-preservation and a distinct lack of wanting to even risk emotional upheaval when there are literally a hundred things he needs to do. 

_ It’s not going to go away _ . 

Yeah, Jack’s aware of that, thanks. He sighs and closes his eyes, deliberately settles his body and focuses on the steady inhale and exhale of his chest. There will be time to analyze whatever the hell is going on with Connor when he doesn’t have to be up in - he blinks his eyes open to check the alarm clock - four hours. 

Noah’s going to give him so much shit for the bags under his eyes, and Jack has nothing but introspection to show for it. 

Sometimes, Jack hates everything.  

  
  


As it turns out, taking breaks is actually beneficial. Connor’s been trying it and he’s found his stress has decreased, his sleep is better, and he’s more efficient at tackling his to-dos. Not that he’s telling anyone else, especially since he doesn’t need the ‘I told you so’s and ‘of course’ looks he’d get from everyone he’s ever spoken to in his life. 

It also works as a reason to go to the Saturday afternoon glace game. It has nothing to do with Jack, of course. Taylor Hall is finally back from injury and Connor’s East is set to play Hall’s West next week, so Connor justifies that it’s not only a break, but a chance to scope out the competition. 

Except: Connor follows Jack a lot more than he follows Hall. It’s not Connor’s fault, and he’ll argue that to the grave. It’s common knowledge that Jack is damn good, plays up on the level of Varsity, and Connor likes to think he is absolutely not biased in saying Jack should have been playing on Varsity a lot earlier. He’s not sure he even notices that he cheers for Jack when he lands a solid hit, or casts the right spell at the right time. Connor even stands and claps when Jack scores, then goes bright red when Jack actually notices him doing so. 

It’s fine. Jack’s chill about it, probably doesn’t even care that Connor is there. So it’s chill.

North wins, and Connor is actually thrumming with energy about it. Maybe that’s what makes him gutsy, waiting outside the dressing room for Jack. It’s to congratulate him, then Connor can go back to his studying. It’s the perfect plan. 

Jack’s flushed and his hair is  _ everywhere _ , when he comes out of the dressing room. He’s so happy and Connor’s heart kind of flips in his chest. Then Jack’s smile is turned towards Connor and it doesn’t fall, per se, but his eyes widen just enough that Connor thinks he should probably go. 

He waves, awkward, then turns to leave. He legitimately almost startles when Jack calls his name, and it’s enough that he can hear Jack’s footsteps coming closer.

“Good game, huh?” Jack says, all of a sudden very close. 

“Yeah,” Connor breathes, then clears his throat because that is embarrassing. “Congrats. You were amazing.” 

Jack makes a sound that might be a scoff, but also might be a laugh and grins at the floor. Connor  _ really  _ needs to get his heart to stop beating so fast and telling his brain that Jack is blushing because of a compliment Connor delivered. 

“I was taking a break,” Connor says lamely because when he feels like this, silence is stifling and he just can’t deal with it. His anxiety kicks in and he rambles. “I wanted to scout West.” 

Jack’s smile does falter a bit at that point, and Connor’s not really sure what he said to make that happen. Regardless, Connor knows he doesn’t like it, and it makes him want to crawl in a hole and maybe not come out for a week or two. 

“I mean, I really didn’t, because you guys were so good, and you were so good, and you totally dominated the whole game, but-” Connor almost bites his own tongue in an effort to stop. It does make Jack’s chest puff out and Connor feels his heart flip again. Maybe he saved the conversation after all. 

“We did, didn’t we,” Jack agrees. Then, “Fuck, I’m starving.” 

Like it was coordinated, Connor hears Patrick Sharp yell, “Eichs, we’re going to the Loose Moose. Coming?” Jack looks at Connor for a moment, then Sharp calls, “Bring McDavid. The more the merrier!”

Connor shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. He knows the value of team bonding and team building and he doesn’t want Jack to feel like he’s required to extend the invitation. There are few things Connor hates more than feeling like an intruder. “I should let you celebrate with your team.”

Jack squints, shakes his head. “Nah, come with us. A rare McDavid break sighting. We can’t ruin it.”

So Connor, blushing, goes, staying maybe a little too close to Jack as they walk down to the Yellow Brick Road. He tries to put distance between them as soon as he notices, but between the crowd of people and the winding road, they always end up shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s annoying in its own right because Jack is warm, and solid, and still vibrating with energy after a good win. 

The Loose Moose staff don’t flinch when an entire gaggle of teenage boys come tumbling into their establishment, commandeering a few booths at the back and yelling insults across the table. If anything, they’re used to it and Connor feels wrapped up in it, crazy and flushed where he’s wedged between Jack and Alex Ovechkin, which is a mind-boggling situation in and of itself. Ovechkin is loud, and louder still when Nicklas Backstrom walks over to congratulate North on their win. 

But, it makes Connor feel welcome. He’s always been more of a wallflower, but Jack asks him about his training in the summer, and they debate the merits of mozzarella sticks as adequate post-game carb loading. Jack even opens up about the research project he’s been doing with Chu and Wickenheiser and Connor is just… he is stupid for this guy. 

Which is a hell of a realization to have in the middle of the Loose Moose, surrounded by Jack Eichel’s teammates. 

“Chu is harder than Wickenheiser,” Jack says, picking at the label of his Butterbeer. “Wickenheiser is literally over my shoulder as we work, which is great and also intimidating.” 

“She’s so good,” Matt Murray agrees from Jack’s other side. “Honestly, I would be useless in potions with another professor. She breaks it all down.” 

Connor has to agree with that. He’s not useless in potions - that’s a spot reserved for the hell that is divination and arithmancy - but it’s not his best subject either. Wickenheiser at least makes classes easy to follow and her feedback is always thorough. Connor’s always liked her. 

“Remind me what you’re researching again?” Murray asks. 

Jack goes stiff, which startles Connor. Jack’s been closed-lipped about his project to Connor, of course, but Connor hasn’t really taken offense to it. After all, he and Jack are at some weird limbo where they’re kind of friends, but they’re also study buddies that aren’t friends…. Sometimes Connor feels like it’s complicated. 

“Mood altering potions.” 

Murray eyes him. “Legal pot.”

“No,” Jack bites. “Like. Prescription level shit. Wickenheiser’s been talking about sending it for approval if we can get it to work.” 

Now it’s Connor’s turn to stiffen, to sit fully upright. “The Canadian Magical Remedies Committee?” 

“Yeah,” Jack says slowly, wary. 

“Jack. That’s…” Connor literally doesn’t have words. He’s not sure the last time a L’Ecole student had built something so ground-breaking that it needed to be sent for approval. More than that, the idea that Jack is working on something that could quite literally be marketed as medicine is amazing. “Oh my god.” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“It’s not,” Murray argues, tone totally placid. He’s a goalie. Connor has yet to see a goalie have more than a placid reaction off the glace rink. “It is very much something.” 

Jack rolls his shoulders, weirdly uncomfortable, Connor thinks. 

“It’s a great thing.” 

“Yeah well. I have to figure it out first.” 

“You will,” Connor says, in the same voice he’s used to motivate teammates in locker rooms his whole life. 

Jack clears his throat. “Thanks. I guess.” 

“Gretzky wept, you’re fucking allergic to compliments,” Murray says with an eye roll before he claps Jack on the shoulder. “Another?” 

“If you’re buying.”

Murray snorts. “McDavid?” 

Honestly, Connor feels shaken. There’s something else Jack’s not telling him, something that feels important to his determination and choice to make it a mood altering potion. Jack’s defensive of it, which Connor can abstractly understand. Jack’s defensive of most things. But this is big. This is huge. This is a breakthrough that people only talk about with prodigies and geniuses. 

“Jack, I-”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” It’s harsh and it startles Connor more than a little. Jack blows out a breath. “Sorry. I…”

“It’s okay,” Connor answers quietly. “I get it.”

Jack huffs. “The thing is, you do, right? The pressure and all of that. The whole thing where people are so excited for what you can do but you don’t even know if you can do it.” 

“You can,” Connor says, and yeah sure, it’s half a reflex, but he does also believe it. “You know Chu and Wickenheiser don’t suffer fools. They wouldn’t just be indulging you.” 

“You actually believe that,” Jack says. “Like.”

Connor has a strange flash of what it must feel like to deal with him sometimes, the constant second guessing of his own abilities. “I don’t lie.”

Jack snorts. “You lying is what got me into this project in the first place.” 

“What?” 

Jack flushes literally the brightest red Connor has ever scene, and Jack’s face flushes at any given opportunity. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” 

Connor wants to push, it’s in his nature to push, he feels like they’re in a good place where he can push, where they’re working on trust and yeah, Connor firmly believes Jack is good enough to kill this project. But Connor feels like he can actually see the way Jack is shutting down and he certainly doesn’t want to hurt whatever this is. 

He backs off, and Murray comes back with the drinks, and everything settles back on glace, on playing, strategy and the rule changes they’re implementing that Connor agrees with and Jack vehemently denies, though Connor gets the sense that’s just to be contrary and because he likes arguing than actual disagreement. 

They’re walking back when Jack stops and looks at him, serious, like he’s evaluating. Connor feels his heart leap into his throat. In Connor’s experience, Jack only looks at him like that when he’s about to blow Connor’s mind. 

Finally, Jack says, “It’s not a tattoo.”

“What?” Connor asks. It’s a non sequitur, completely unrelated to literally anything they’ve talked about. Connor feels like his brain is scrambling to keep up. 

“I don’t have any ink,” Jack replies, scratching at a spot on his lower back. “I’ve never even been in a tattoo parlour.” 

“But then-” Connor starts, when his brain catches up to what they’re talking about. 

“It’s a fatemark.” He looks uneasy, on edge. Connor wants to hug him, touch him, reassure him that whatever he’s thinking about, Connor can handle. He wants Jack to trust him, so much. Yet at the same time, his heart is thundering, mind tossing back to talking things out with Dylan, hypothesizing what the hell kind of mark wasn’t a soulmark and wasn’t a tattoo, but faded over time.

“Fatemark?” 

Connor hates the way Jack rolls his shoulders before he says, “I’ve been getting them since I was a kid. Kind of like soulmarks but. Temporary.”

Connor frowns. “You’ve had the trophy forever.”

“It’s not an exact science,” Jack snaps, but Connor takes it in stride. It’s obvious that fatemarks are a sensitive subject. “There’s no goddamn research. I did a lot of reading about soulmarks when I figured it out.”

Which explains why Connor wasn’t able to find anything when he went down that rabbit hole weeks ago. “Soulmates are legend.”

“I fucking know that, okay? It was the closest thing my sister and I could find to how the fatemarks worked.” 

Connor pauses, evaluates. “How do they work?” 

“They show up randomly,” Jack finally says, carefully, testing. Connor’s heart is beating a thousand miles a minute. He gets the sense Jack hasn’t had this conversation with many people. “I never know they’re coming. I have no idea who they’re about either, or what the are, or how long they stay. I wake up with them, mostly.” 

Connor’s heart is in his throat. He can’t help it. He almost bites his tongue to keep himself from asking if Jack has a mark for Connor, if there’s evidence of whatever they’ve built on Jack’s skin. He digs his fingers into his own thigh. That thought process isn’t going to help anyone and Connor can’t afford more hope. 

“Some have faded, over time.” 

Connor doesn’t ask if that’s hard. It’s all over Jack’s body language. 

“Some… Some have stayed.” His fingers go to the trophy. 

“You’ve had that one a while?” 

“First glace championship I ever won,” Jack reveals. “I was like, eight.” 

Connor swallows, but nods. He’s torn, really. The fatemarks sound fascinating and the nerd in Connor wants to know everything. But he can also read in Jack’s body language that this is a lot, that there aren’t many people Jack has trusted with this information. His fingers are digging into his thigh so hard it not only hurts his thigh, but it’s hurting his fingers too. 

“Thank you,” is what Connor finally settles on. “Thank you for trusting me.” 

Jack scoffs, which is maybe more expected than Connor had anticipated. It certainly feels like some of the tension releases out of both of them. “You believed it.” 

It’s not rude or callous, it’s a statement of fact that makes Connor smile. He likes earning Jack’s trust; he likes how it makes him feel. He likes what it says about their relationship. This time, however, Connor does know better than to push. He learned his lesson earlier. 

“Let’s get back,” he says instead, and feels like he can tell Jack’s aware he’s changing the subject on Jack’s behalf. “I have potions homework to finish up.” 

They don’t talk getting back to the school, but it doesn’t feel like they have to. Connor feels warm with the knowledge that he’s not going to lose his mind for taking a break, but also with pride. He knows how hard Jack’s trust is to earn and he can feel his stomach flipping in glee. 

“Thanks for inviting me out,” Connor says as they approach the front doors. 

Jack looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks for coming to the game.” 

Connor gulps. “My pleasure.”

For just a brief moment, Connor lets himself look at Jack’s lips. He wants - yeah, he wants to kiss Jack. He’s known for awhile now, and now it’s on the surface. He wants Jack to lean in and kiss him goodnight. But he’s frozen in place, and Jack backs away. Connor doesn’t catch his breath, but he can’t help feeling like there’s rejection in the space between them.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Jack says. 

“Yep,” Connor replies, throat dry. “Can’t wait.” He kicks himself for adding that at the end but he’s not really sure if he has control over his own body right now. 

Jack leaves and Connor… Well, Connor doesn’t get any potions homework done that night.

  
  


Jack’s twitchy. He can’t stand still. He’s bouncing on his heels, waiting outside Connor’s dorm.

Connor comes running up the stairs, then stops short just before he runs right into Jack. He’s flushed, hair a mess, and Jack’s stomach does a flip-flop.

“You didn’t have to  _ run _ here,” Jack quips, steps aside for Connor to unlock the door. 

Connor’s shoulders round a bit. “I didn’t...you said you were waiting.”

“I want you to try something,” Jack says, unable to stop grinning. He’s ridiculously proud of this, a potion that Dr. Wickenheiser and Dr. Chu are sending off to get officially approved by the Canadian Magical Remedies Committee  _ tomorrow.  _

He puts up their privacy curtain of spells again, settles cross-legged on the bed with Connor. 

“You know I’ve been working on an independent study,” Jack starts, and when Connor nods, takes the vial out of his backpack. “Well, it’s done.” 

Connor takes the vial from him, studies the way its deep purple sparkles in the light. “What is it?”

Jack swallows. “It’s uh, it’s a sort of mood-changing potion,” he explains, keeping it intentionally vague. “I was wondering if you wanted to try it out.”

Connor looks between Jack and the vial a few times. “...Me?” 

“Only if you’re okay with it, but I promise it’s safe,” Jack rushes out. He’s not sure why he’s suddenly so nervous. 

Connor fiddles with the cap, holds it up to his nose before he actually moans. 

“What? What does it smell like?” Jack asks.

Connor holds the vial out to Jack, like he’ll be able to smell the same thing. 

“I already know what it smells like to me,” Jack says, pushing it back towards Connor.

Connor furrows his eyebrows, but sniffs it again. “It’s...hard to describe. It smells like home, I guess?” 

“Home how?” Jack presses because it feels important to know, important to squirrel away the little things that help Connor breathe.

“I don’t know! Like... freshly pressed laundry. The ice from the rink my dad made for my brother and me when I was first learning to skate. My carpet by the fireplace, that always smelled a little charred. Why, what does it smell like to you?”

“Uh,” Jack starts, scrambling a little. He is very not telling Connor that the potion smells like Connor, at all. It’s the only part of the scent that’s stuck with him - which is annoying in its own right - and it takes Jack longer than he’d like to dig up and remember the rest of it. “Like home too, I guess. My mom used to bake sugar cookies, because they’re Jessie’s favourite. I couldn’t eat them because, like, my diet and everything, but she’d bake them anyway.” He’s rambling, he can feel it, but he can’t seem to shut his mouth and make himself stop, not with Connor’s earnest face watching him curiously. “My dad’s black coffee that he would drink by the gallon in the morning before work while we did the crossword together. So like, a little bit like newspaper too?” 

Connor hums and Jack gets the weirdly distinct impression that he’s filing the information away. “Okay.”

It’s without further comment that Connor tips the vial back and swallows the contents. Jack does not get caught up on the way his Adam’s apple bobs. 

“How did that feel? Do you notice any changes? Can you tell if anything is wrong? Any headache?” Jack asks these questions very quickly, grabbing the small flashlight he had been keeping in his pocket and checking Connor’s pupils for proper constriction and dilation as Connor replies. “Do you feel smarter?” he adds, mostly joking. 

“It tasted good? I don’t actually know what it tasted like, but I know it was good. I don’t feel different. Should I? Is the effect supposed to be that quick?”

“There’s supposed to be a short waiting period before the effects kick in,” Jack replies dismissively, then takes Connor’s face in his hands, turning his head side to side to make sure Connor’s ears aren’t flushing red. 

It’s in the moment that Jack’s returned Connor’s head to staring straight back at him that Connor’s eyelids and shoulders droop, the corners of his mouth curling up into a lax smile. 

“Connor? Connor.” Jack’s interested now. This is the kind of reaction that means something.

Connor hums, leaning his weight onto Jack’s right hand. “Yeah, Jack, I feel gnood. I mean good, or nice. Ha, gnood. You’re hands are warm. And your eyes are really blue.”

 Jack doesn’t really know what to do with all of that, but he takes Connor’s languidness, relaxation, as a really good sign. 

“How do you feel about your Care of Magical Creatures practical on Monday?” Jack prods, the first real test of the potion. 

Connor, to Jack’s happy surprise, doesn’t just shrug it off - he scrunches his eyebrows together, actually thinks about it. “I think I can do well. Lindy is fair, y’know?” He turns his face further into Jack’s hand as he says it, but Jack is too thrilled to care and even slides his hand around to the back of Connor’s neck. 

“That’s good, Connor, I know you’ll do well,” assures Jack. He doesn’t really know what else to say, but he doesn’t need to because Connor takes Jack’s wrists, not too firm, and brings them down to the bed. 

“Can I lie down?” Connor asks, already moving to get under the covers. Jack has to move out of the way at Connor’s insistent tugging on the sheets and he finds himself standing beside the bed, inexplicably awkward. He came here for the potion, to make sure he’d done his job and could move on with his dumb crush and his even dumber fatemark. But there’s a tug in his stomach and he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek. He needs to go and he turns to do just that. 

But Connor reaches for his wrist again, frowning up at him as he curls up on his side. His eyelids are fluttering, lashes soft on his cheek and Jack  _ really _ needs to go if he’s thinking that kind of poetic, flowery shit about Connor. Except Connor’s frowning up at him, the exact opposite of what Jack wanted the potion to do and Jack panics instead. 

“What? What is it? Did something go wrong? Does your head hurt?” he asks in a rush, reaching for Connor like an instinct. 

Connor shakes his head, but leans into the palm Jack presses to his forehead. “Come here.” 

“What?” Jack asks. 

Connor furrows his brow. “Yeah. You’re warm and too far.”

“I can get Stromer-” He’s leaning in though, because he can’t help himself. Connor is also warm and he looks so soft, like those time’s he’s so tired at the end of the movies they watch together and it is so, so tempting. 

Which is when Connor plays his trump card and pouts. Legitimately, sticks out his lower lip and pouts at Jack, like Jack’s the one with a problem and isn’t doing what Connor needs him to do. 

“Okay, okay,” Jack soothes, too soft and too gentle. It’s weird, Jack thinks, that Connor curls into him so easily, fitting himself along the length of Jack like that stupid proverbial puzzle piece. He sighs and settles his head on Jack’s chest when Jack pulls out his phone and thumbs open his chill playlist. He hums a little, shifting restlessly until Jack threads his hand into Connor’s hair. Turns out, it’s just as soft and fluffy as it looks. He scratches and Connor seems to melt into him even more. 

“You know, I can teach you a spell to give you more room in your wardrobe. It’s really useful,” Connor says calmly. 

Jack’s not sure why that’s important for Connor to say now, but he doesn’t ask. He just says, “yeah, I’d like that. Thanks Connor.”

Somehow, Connor moves even closer, a bright smile on his face. “Okay!” He’s looking at Jack with these eyes that are just so - so  _ much _ .

Jack’s project is decidedly  _ not  _ a love potion. But. Connor does not like Jack. 

Okay, so maybe Connor likes him a little, a tolerable amount. But he doesn’t  _ like  _ like him. No. Nope. He probably just snuggles everyone like this...blushes at everyone like that. Wants everyone to cuddle him close and play with his hair. 

It’s nothing. Jack will just have to find a way to ask Connor about it non-awkwardly a few days from now. 

Because Connor does not like Jack. Not the way that Jack fears he’s starting to like Connor. 

 

Connor wakes up rested. 

It’s notable for all of the times he wakes up concerned he’s slept in, or having suffered through nights of tossing and turning because his brain won’t shut up or shut off. Today though, is different. His jumbled thoughts are settled, at least for now, and he feels less like he has too many things to do and definitely not enough time to do them. 

He wanders down for breakfast, awake and aware and nudges Dylan aside on one of the long benches. Dylan huffs, but shuffles Mitch over to make room for Connor. “You look awake.”

Connor, who is pointedly not going to comment on how close they are and the fact that they’re actually sitting on the same side of the table, can’t help his smile as he helps himself to toast and scrambled eggs. “I had a good sleep.” 

“Really?” And Mitch, bless his heart, sounds so genuinely excited for Connor, even pours him a half a cup of coffee. Connor will take it though, even if he actually doesn’t need it this morning. 

“Any particular reason?” Dylan says, nudging Connor suggestively. 

Connor doesn’t blush, by some miracle. “Actually, Jack-”

“Oooooh, Jaaack,” Dylan drawls. 

Connor shushes him, a little paranoid that someone heard. “No, listen! He’s working on this potion for a project, and I tried it and it was super relaxing. Like, it made me remember some of my happiest memories. And it kind of felt like when I take really deep breaths when I’m nervous.”

“So it’s like weed,” Dylan says, matter-of-factly. 

“Except not smelly,” Connor corrects. 

“And not illegal,” Mitch adds. 

“A point,” Dylan agrees. “Last time Connor tried a substance when it was illegal he cried over Cam for twenty minutes.” 

“I was drunk.”

“And emo about it because you weren’t 18. I was there,” Dylan adds with a solemnity that isn’t required here. Connor rolls his eyes. 

“Okay,” Mitch says, and draws the word out more than a few syllables because this is a story he hasn’t heard and yeah, is probably a little confused by. “I’m going to head to practice, so when you guys are done doing your brain twinning thing, you can tell me the story, cool?” He claps Dylan on the shoulder, but pauses on Connor’s and smiles. “I’m glad you’re not a basket case.” 

Dylan snorts, but has the presence of mind to wait for Mitch to be gone to say, “Can you please admit that you have a crush on Jack Eichel.”

Connor nearly chokes on his toast. “I-”

“Connor. Bud. You’re my best friend. I have walked you through your gay awakening, and suffered through how many years of your crush on Sidney Crosby. I’ve heard you wax poetic about Thor  _ and  _ whatever the Thor actor’s brother’s name is.”

“Liam.”

“Not important. The point is, you cannot possibly try to bullshit me on this. You obviously like him. It is literally hurtful to watch you deny it. Just admit it and then we can figure out what to do about it.” 

Connor kind of wants to sink into the floor. But this is Dylan. “I didn’t know I could be so myself around someone who isn’t my family,” he deflects.

“All yourself?” Dylan asks, an open-ended question with a clear direction because Dylan knows the general reaction of the population when they discover Connor absolutely does not have all of his shit together.

“He talked me through a really bad one a couple weeks ago,” Connor says quietly. “But it’s not just that.”

“He accepts it, and he likes you,” Dylan says, plain and simple. 

“Yeah. Yeah,” Connor says, with more confidence the second time. “And he really likes movies. And he lets me cuddle him. But I don’t know what that means to him, if it means the same that it does to me now.” 

Dylan stares, unblinking, at Connor long enough that Connor feels a little bit like he’s under a microscope. 

Deadpan, Dylan finally says, “Eichel. Jack Eichel. Lets you cuddle him.” 

Connor squirms. “Not like,  _ super  _ cuddling. Like, the bed is small, right? So you have to both fit.” 

“Uh huh. Yeah. One more question. Have you ever fallen asleep together?” 

Connor’s blushing. “We woke up together once and my hair was messy and he made me wear his hat.” 

“Oh my god. Oh my GOD, Connor,” Dylan practically yells, and people are staring, people are most definitely staring and Connor is going to explode. 

“That doesn’t mean he likes me! It just means he was too nice to make me leave!” Connor exclaims, but in a whisper. 

Dylan sighs. “Okay, yeah, I may not be the best for giving relationship advice, given my track record, but how about you do yourself a favour and just admit your feelings to him. It’s scary, but dude. He wants the McDick.” 

Connor almost,  _ almost _ laughs. “You’re a McDick.” 

“Yep, but at least I’m looking out for you.” Dylan’s grinning, and Connor knows Dylan won’t bring it up again unless Connor does. 

“Don’t you have a midterm this week?” Connor asks, which means  _ thanks. _

“Hurry up then, you know I’m bad at studying on my own.” Dylan replies, which Connor knows means  _ you’re welcome. _

 

The problem with Dylan’s needling is that it sticks with Connor. And maybe that’s what Dylan had meant for it to do, really make Connor think about what he’s doing, where his heart is. But it makes every interaction with Jack fraught and a little weird. Connor hates that it’s his fault. 

And maybe that’s why the hat startles him so much. 

There’s nothing interesting about it. Grey, evergreen tree stitched by the beak. What is notable, however, is the fact that Connor knows for a fact the hat is his. Jack owns a lot of hats, too many hats even, but this one is Connor’s. 

Jack looks up, catches Connor looking. “Took you long enough, what did you get lost? We’re here every day.” Connor doesn’t reply and Jack raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

“That’s my hat.” And Connor knows this could be his chance. The perfect opening with the way Jack rolls his eyes. It wouldn’t take much either, a quick, “Looks good on you” and they’d probably be off to the races. Jack looks sour as he yanks the hat off his head and yeah, Connor’s definitely in trouble if he wants to run his fingers through the insane mess of Jack’s curls. 

“Earth to McDavid. You here?”

Connor blinks. Jack’s put the hat back on his head and is watching him with a defiant look on his face. There are a hundred things Connor could say, a million ways this moment could go. In the end, Connor chickens out. “Yeah. Struggling with the wand movement for  _ Impedimenta. _ ”

“It’s inverted  _ stupify _ . Here, look.” 

And Jack explains it simply, without judgement, knows exactly what to emphasize to help Connor to get it and never forget it. Connor feels comfortable, easy, does the movements flawlessly without the added frustration of studying by himself and knows Dylan was right. Dylan is right. Connor’s known for ages. 

But Connor also knows how to protect himself, knows that he has to, and so, when they’re taking a break and Jack’s gone off to the bathroom, Connor puts his head on the table, and packs those feelings off into a box in his brain, never to be opened again. 

 

Dr. Wickenheiser calls Jack into her office after class. Jack’s not entirely sure why. The potion’s been submitted, they’re literally just waiting for approval from the Canadian Magical Remedies Committee, and Dr. Wickenheiser had solemnly reminded him that kind of thing could take months. He has absolutely no idea what to expect when he settles in a seat in front of her desk. His heart literally skips a beat when she hands him a white envelope, the letters CMRC in the top left and his name typed out on the center. 

She doesn’t say anything, but Jack reflexively scans her face for any indications whether this could be good or bad as he tears the envelope open. It’s barely been a month, maybe it was an easy thing to turn down.

He has to read the letter inside twice before it even begins to register.  

“They accepted it,” Jack says, mostly to himself. 

“They accepted it,” Dr. Wickenheiser repeats, confident and sure like Jack hasn’t seen her in weeks. 

Jack is numb. To say this is unexpected is like calling grass green. Jack had been all but convinced it wouldn’t be approved. There are stories and epics about cases like his, cases where the substance in question has to go back for second, third, fourth submissions because this is the brain they’re talking about. 

“Congratulations, Jack,” she says and the  _ pride _ in her voice would rock him back on his heels had he been standing.

“They fucking accepted it.” 

She laughs like she gets it. His potion has been approved by the goddamn Canadian Magical Remedies Committee, holy shit. 

“What you did with this project takes courage and dedication,” Dr. Wickenheiser says. “I’m sure Dr. Chu would love to hear the news. Your family, too.” 

It’s not a real dismissal, but Jack’s grinning and nearly out the door before he says, “thank you so much for everything, Dr. Wickenheiser. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Shit, he needs to tell so many people. His parents, Jessie, Noah….

“Hello?” Connor answers and Jack literally pulls the phone away from his ear in shock. Jack isn’t entirely sure where Connor is or what he’s doing. He doesn’t altogether care. 

“My potion got approved,” he says.

“Jack!” Connor exclaims. It almost hurts Jack’s ear, except for how Jack’s grinning so widely that his phone isn’t all that close to his face to begin with. 

“Yeah,” Jack breathes out still stunned, still in awe. Fucking approved!

“Listen, Lindy’s about to start lecture, but call me later or come to my dorm after 7, okay?” Connor says. He still sounds just as excited.

“Sure, yeah, I’ll talk to you later,” Jack says, then hangs up. Okay, he’ll call Jessie next, then intercept Noah in the dining hall because it’s Noah’s lunch hour... 

It only really hits him when Jessie answers the phone that he had called Connor first. 

 

When he tells Noah, Noah just stares at him, intent enough that Jack has to look up at the ceiling, hands tucked under his pillow. He’d missed Noah in the dining hall because Noah chose literally today of all days to spend lunch studying, but they’d gotten here, in the dorm. 

“You called him first,” Noah repeats. “ _ First _ , Jack.”

“Yeah, I know. I was there.” Kind of. Noah doesn’t need to know and honestly, Jack has nothing else to say. He is absolutely not facing those feelings. That’s a Pandora’s Box he’ll never get closed and he’d like to have the opportunity to wallow in his successes before he thinks about how he’s worn Connor’s hat, and cuddled and watched movies with Connor, and called Connor first. 

“You literally need to talk to him.  _ Please  _ talk to him, I am literally begging you,” Noah says. Jack still can’t look at him. 

Jack sighs. “What do I say?”

“I would probably try, ‘Hey Connor, I like you.’ I hear that goes over well.” 

“Be serious, oh my god.”

“I  _ am  _ being serious, you be serious!” 

Jack rolls away. Noah nudges his back with his foot. 

“Don’t kick me,” Jack says weakly. 

“That wasn’t a kick,” Noah says. “You’ll know it’s a kick. I’ll shove my whole foot up your ass because of your blatant  _ lies _ .” 

“Fucking bullshit you could not.” He rolls back over to reach for Noah, get him in a headlock because Jack is stronger and packed more densely than Noah is. Noah fights back and he fights dirty. Jack hates Noah so much. But he kind of loves him too. 

“Look,” Noah says, pinned and out of breath. “You owe it to him and yourself to answer the ‘what if’ question. If for no other reason than getting answers and being able to put this away once and for all.” 

Ugh.

Jack fucking hates when Noah’s right. 

 

He finds Connor in the dining hall, before 7, but that’s fine. This isn’t about his potion anyway. Sometimes, Jack hates that he’s the type that needs to deal with things once he’s made a decision. Jack just can’t sit on it any longer.

“Look. We need to talk.”

Connor jolts, which is, like, the exact opposite of what Jack wants. None of this is Connor’s fault.

“Now?”

Jack shrugs. “In private.”

Connor doesn’t even look at Strome, just pushes himself back and grabs his bag from the floor. There’s a little smile on his face that just… Jack’s going to miss it, is what he’s saying. Because Connor is definitely going to walk away. They always do. 

Jack doesn’t realize where they’re going until he shows up in front of his common room. Connor seems unfazed, just tilts his head to the side in curiosity when Jack looks back at him. Jack huffs. It’ll do. He leads the way up to his dorm and plops on his bed. Connor drops his bag at the end of Jack’s bed, like he’s done countless times over the year. This feels different, though. Jack can’t stop looking at the bag and thinking about how much he’ll miss the stupid thing.

“Everything okay? I thought you were coming by later.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” Jack says, lifts a hand to run it over his face. “Look. I just-” His throat closes up for a moment and Jack has to breathe through it before he blurts, “I like you.”

Connor blinks at him. Jack holds his breath. He can’t help it. He knows what comes next, but even expected rejection hurts. “Oh.”

Which.

“Oh? That’s all you can say?” Because dammit, can’t Connor just fucking tell him that it’s weird now and they can’t even be friends. Not that Jack’s saying they were in the first place. “It’s obvious. Like. Everyone knows.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t-” Jack blinks at him. “Are you serious? I watch you  _ all the time _ . I fucking helped you fix Strome and I don’t even  _ like _ Strome.”

“You were keeping us from getting arrested, or killing him or screwing up the rest of his life, whatever.” But then Connor’s quiet for a moment before he says, a little bit sly, “And you like me.”

“Oh good, you were listening.”

Connor rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing softly too and… coming closer? Jack blinks. “I like you too.”

“What the fuck?”

“You didn’t know?” And he’s fucking smirking, of all things, while he throws Jack’s own words back in his face. He’s such a shit; Jack likes him too much. “It’s obvious. Everyone knows.”

“You’re not cute.” He rolls his eyes when Connor laughs, the same soft thing from earlier. “And you’re lying. It’s not obvious.”

“Jack-”

And Jack cannot be accused of knowing when to shut up. He can barely be accused of shutting up at all, so, naturally, he blurts out, “If it were obvious - If it were  _ true _ you’d already be kissing me and-”

Jack catches the eye roll - seriously, Connor needs to stop, Jack’s getting concerned about what that’s doing to his eyes and whether they’re going to end up getting stuck - half a second before Connor’s hand is around his head and they really are kissing.

It takes forever for Jack to get his head in the game. Half of his brain is sirens and half of his brain is trying to figure out the right angle for his head, the right way to take advantage of this because there is no way in hell it’s happening again in his lifetime.

The kiss ends too soon, before Jack can actually get his head in the game, and Connor fucking chews on his lip of all damn things, looking concerned. Jack doesn’t even know he’s still gripping Connor’s wrist until he feels a little tug, like Connor wants to lift his hand away from Jack’s neck and that is absolutely unacceptable. There’s a smile creeping across his face, he can feel it, the same way he can feel where Connor’s tongue had danced across his lower lip.

“Oh.”

“That’s all you can say?” Connor huffs, but he’s swaying into Jack’s space in a way that Jack finds endearing.

“Not my fault. It wasn’t my best work,” Jack replies, already leaning in.

The second kiss is better. Jack knows what he’s doing here and Connor’s so fucking responsive to every move of his head and flick of his tongue. He even makes a needy little noise when Jack moves to pull away and Jack’s hand tightens reflexively on Connor’s wrist. It takes Connor a minute to open his eyes and they’re so, so dark it makes Jack’s stomach warm.

Then Connor’s pushing at his shoulder, nudging him back until Jack actually shifts up the bed. Connor makes a happy noise and, holy fuck, climbs right into Jack’s lap, knees on either side of Jack’s hips.

The thing is, as much as Jack wants to thrust his hips up, strip Connor of his shirt and about a thousand other things, he also could imagine kissing Connor for the rest of time. Connor doesn’t seem particularly urgent, no matter what Jack does to encourage him, and it becomes easy to relax into making out with Connor for the sake of making out. He’s in no hurry. He doesn’t need to be in a hurry. 

Their kisses slow until Connor nestles closer into his side. They lie there, cuddling and warm, Jack’s mouth still tingling from all the damn kissing, when Connor asks, “So where’s mine?” 

“Hm?” Jack responds. 

“My mark,” Connor replies. 

“Uh,” because Jack’s brain is very online now. Fatemarks aren’t things he likes talking about, even if he has to routinely explain how no, he doesn’t just randomly get tattoos at school. “That one. I think.”

“A brain?” Connor asks, and leans up to get a better look. God, it’s going to suck when Jack manages to figure out why Connor’s in his life. “Because I’m smart?”

“It’s usually the reason,” Jack explains. “Like this one?” He turns his arm over to show him the trophy again. “Game winning goal in the championship final.” 

Connor frowns. “So why a brain? You don’t need me to pass your classes. Or vice versa.” 

Jack swallows because this feels like  _ it _ all over again. “Strome. The memory altering was all about the brain.”

Connor’s frown doesn’t diminish. If anything, it gets worse and Jack all but sits on his hand to keep himself from reaching out to smooth it away. “But that had nothing to do with me.” 

“Strome’s your BFF or whatever. You wanted him normal.” 

“But it didn’t matter. I was sad that Marns was sad, and it was weird that Stromer wasn’t talking about him every second sentence but Stromer and Marns… that doesn’t change me and Stromer.”

Jack keeps still by sheer force of will. “There were no other marks though.” His heart is pounding and there’s no way Connor doesn’t feel how irregular his breathing is. 

“So I don’t have one?” 

And here it is: the second moment it all unravels. If there’s no fatemark, they both know Connor isn’t meant to be in his life. 

“Does anyone else not have one?” 

Jack shakes his head. “Just my parents. My sister.” 

“Oh,” is Connor’s only response. The silence that follows feels oppressive until Connor says, “Permanent people.” 

“What?” 

“Your family doesn’t need fatemarks because they’re not going anywhere. They’re just… in your life. Your family. Always going to be there. You’re not there to do something for them.” 

“Okay…” Jack has no idea where this is going. None of it has turned up in his research and he really hasn’t met anyone who didn’t leave a mark behind. Even Hanny’s Celtic knot of friendship is still a fatemark.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t have a mark because you’re not supposed to be something specific to me. You’re just supposed to be… you.” 

It’s optimistic as all hell, and such a damn Connor thing to say. Jack hates himself when the next thing out of his mouth is, “What if it means you’re not supposed to be in my life?” 

“Then I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Connor retorts. “It doesn’t work like that. You said it yourself. People come into your life and leave a fatemark, otherwise they don’t stick around, they’re not meant to be. But I’m still here. We’re still here. That can’t mean nothing.” 

Jack doesn’t say it out loud, but Connor has a point. 

 

It’s almost comical that nothing really changes once they become A Thing. Except for the fact that Connor wants to bring Jack apple pie every single day and it takes Jack sending Connor a snapchat of him setting his nutrition plan on fire for Connor to get the message. He switches to writing Jack little notes, ones that are charmed to disappear once Jack’s read them. It keeps them private, and Connor knows that Jack wouldn’t be happy if someone found out “how sappy their relationship is” (Jack’s words, not Connor’s). 

It’s cute, though. Connor likes learning how Jack shows his appreciation of affection, how he bristles but doesn’t really mean it. How he won’t ask for Connor’s hand but looks at Connor expectantly until Connor’s the one to reach out. 

“It’s offensive and disgusting,” is Noah’s very informed opinion on the whole thing, even as he pointedly does not abandon them on Disney nights. “Is there a potion that will just make you into the same person?” 

“That would be illegal,” Jack says primly, up to date on too many potions regulations after his project submission.

Which is another thing. Connor has the potion. He keeps it in his bedside drawer. He’d been reluctant to take it, terrified of the regulations and the board approval and too many hiccups. 

Jack, on brand as ever, had rolled his eyes. “There’s no regulation against you having it before approval, nor after as it turns out. Stop being a goody-goody.”

Connor looks it up, on his phone, right at that moment, because no one is more petty than Jack Eichel, but Connor can hold his own. “It’s ethically frowned upon.”

“No, your anxiety attacks are ethically frowned upon. Ethically forbidden even. This keeps the ethics even.” 

It doesn’t make sense, but Connor keeps the potion. Some things in a relationship are worth the compromise. Connor will admit he likes knowing it’s there. For emergencies, or something. An emergency he hasn’t had yet. 

A relationship does not settle Jack. He’s still cranky and ornery and hates losing more than literally anything else. They ban glace talk when they play each other, until they have to ban school glace talk in general because it ends in fighting.

“He’s a baby,” is Noah’s response. “And you’re too good to him.” 

Connor disagrees, quite frankly, but that might be as a result of knowing how severely he and Jack have been compared over the years, and being a little angry himself about the lack of attention Jack gets. 

It all goes out the window with Sid announces his Pittsburgh signing anyway. He and Jack watch the press conference, Connor’s hand clenching Jack’s so tight, that he has to be reminded at intervals not to crush the bones in Jack’s hands. 

“Need them for the game, babe.”

Connor laughs and blushes, because he does that when Jack throws any nickname at him, whether it’s meant for Connor or just a turn of phrase. “The game we’re going to play professionally some day?”

Jack doesn’t even flinch, just grins. “You going pro? Gonna put me up?” 

“Shut up,” Connor says, and shoves him almost entirely off the bed. “You’re going to make just as much as me.”

“Nah,” Jack replies, but he’s not angry about it. “You can buy the house and the cars, and I’ll buy the groceries.” 

Professional glace, alongside Jack, with a home for them both. It sounds like a dream in Connor’s head, but he also knows Jack, knows what Jack will fight for and what that means. Connor’s not too bad himself, at least not when it matters. Jack matters. Glace matters. Jack could choose research and Connor could be a historian, or they could be somewhere completely different than they had ever planned. It doesn’t really matter because Jack will be there, no matter what.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Connor lets himself believe it’s not just a dream, it’s his future. 

 

Jack wakes up to a newspaper hitting him in the face, which, what? This isn’t the 1950s, god damn. 

“You didn’t tell me they wrote a fucking  _ article  _ about you, asshat,” Noah says. 

Jack groans, holds the newspaper out at arm’s length and blinks a few times. The article comes into focus, and, huh, that picture with Dr. Wickenheiser and Dr. Chu turned out better than Jack had imagined. 

“If I told you everything that happened in my life, you’d get bored,” Jack quips back, but he’s already reading the article so he doesn’t register Noah’s reply. 

_ At only seventeen years old, Cartier’s own Jack Eichel has  _ _ created _ _ an anti-anxiety potion that proves to be revolutionary. He credits his advisors for their faith and dedication, and his friends for their never-ending support.  _

_ “You don’t do it alone,” Eichel says. “It’s a little like anxiety. You don’t [...] do it alone.”  _

Jack knows what he said, smiles to himself at the expletive deleted. 

_ “Passion is easy. My supervisors were supportive of what I wanted to do. It’s different when you’re invested, when you know someone or there’s something personal on the line. That’s where dedication comes from. And that’s how we got here.” _

_ Here being an exceptional status student allowed to do an independent project before policy allows, balancing a full course load in school and varsity status in Glace a full year before being technically eligible.  _

_ “He never drops a ball,” Coach Housley says of Jack’s ability to keep it all together. “It’s incredibly impressive to see him. We don’t see this level of work ethic in most adults, let alone in a teenager.”  _

_ “It was a joy,” Wickenheiser adds. “Jack’s not afraid to offer his opinion and try new things. Did something change halfway through? Only in the way he applied himself.” _

Jack finishes reading the article and doesn’t even feel guilty when he looks at Noah with the biggest grin on his face. 

“And you didn’t even mention McDavid’s name. He’ll be heartbroken,” Noah says, but he’s grinning too, because Noah’s the actual best and Jack platonically loves him. “I think the most disgusting thing about that is you didn’t fucking have to. He’ll know.” 

“You mispronounced amazing,” is Jack’s snarky response, tossing the covers off his legs. “I’m in the mood for pancakes.” 

  
  


Jack’s cocky when he walks into the dining hall and Connor… Connor’s charmed. 

“Put those away, oh my god.”

Connor nudges Dylan, grinning. “Don’t me mad because your boyfriend didn’t get a whole article written about how great he is.” 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” is Dylan’s response. 

“Nah,” and there’s Mitch, draping himself over Dylan’s shoulders. It’s nice, Connor thinks, to have them back to something resembling how happy they were before Dylan’s, well, stupidity. “We’re cuter. Everyone else is competing for second place.” 

“That’s not entertaining-”

“Losers,” Jack interrupts, folding himself onto the bench across from Connor. Connor watches his thighs bunch in his sweats, because he can and because he’s proud. “McDavid.” 

“Eichel.” And even Connor can hear the wellspring of emotion in the single word. 

“An article?” Dylan pipes up. “Really? They wrote a fucking article?” 

“Some of us are out here making groundbreaking discoveries,” Jack replies and Connor’s chest swells with it all over again. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game, bud.” 

“That was real,” Mitch says, finally sitting. “That was a real thing that came out of your mouth. You actually chose to say that.” 

Hanifin, who’s long settled at Jack’s side, sighs, put upon. “I’m offended. I’m offended on behalf of your family, your friends. I’m offended on behalf of America.” 

“Let him have his moment,” Connor says, and can’t help the way he kicks out to link his ankle around Jack’s. “He’s allowed to be proud.” 

Jack’s face is disgusted, but there’s a curl in his mouth he can’t hide, and he crosses his leg over Connor’s shin. “Gross, McDavid.” 

Connor doesn’t laugh, but it’s a close thing, giddy and full with his friends, with his Jack. Later, he knows, he’ll curl up with Jack, relaxed now that the potion’s done, the project is done, and Jack’s already got summer job offers from some of the top mental health institutes. He’ll be able to kiss him, to wrap himself around Jack and be proud. 

And next time Connor’s anxiety kicks in, he knows Jack will be there, with or without the potion. It’s not a perfect cure, but Connor’s pretty okay with what he’s got.

 


End file.
